


Like Moths to a Flame

by Jade4813



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 54,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26610781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade4813/pseuds/Jade4813
Summary: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over." Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?
Relationships: Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Comments: 119
Kudos: 315





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am new to the North and South fandom and am regrettably neither a historian, nor an expert on the etiquette of the time. I hope you will forgive any inaccuracies in either of these areas, as this is my first fanfic set outside of the modern era.

_ “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over. I’m looking to the future.” _

John Thornton truly was the most infuriating man. Margaret had stood there in mortification, in mute, ineffectual apology during his condemnation of her character, and she had felt something inside her wither and die at the coldness in his eyes. Unable to offer him explanation, she had withstood his rebuke and had keenly felt his absence and rejection after he’d walked away.

She had borne much since her life had been uprooted from her bright, happy home in Helstone to the dark, dirty, smoky world of Milton. She could bear this too, she told herself as his footsteps thundered down the stairs and out the door, not even an hour after his harsh censure.

But then, as darkness blanketed the world outside and the sounds of the mills that supported the town stilled for the night, Margaret found herself unable to stop thinking of his eyes, how they had burned bright with passion even through the wintry chill of his words.

How dare he speak to her that way? How dare he lay his accusations at her feet and then storm away with all the hauteur and wounded dignity of a hundred “proper” gentlemen? Without offering a chance to acquit herself or…well, perhaps he had given her such a chance, but she had explained why she was not at liberty to take it. He had proven himself faithless, abandoning her the instant her character was called into question. He, who had once professed that he loved her.

She had known it was duty and honor – and not sentiment – that had once compelled him to ask for her hand.

Filled with impotent frustration and mute ire, Margaret sought out the privacy of her bedroom and leaned against the door, sucking in a few long breaths. Were she a man, she could have expressed her riotous feelings more appropriately – or, in the eyes of society, more inappropriately, as the case might be. Were she Mr Thornton, she could have pounded her fists against some inanimate object (even in her rage, Margaret could not imagine physically striking a  _ person, _ although the subject of her current thoughts certainly tested that resolve) until her energy was spent and her wounded feelings sated. But she was not a man of any sort – definitely not of  _ his _ sort – and so she was forced to accept life’s challenges with grace, outwardly maintaining a placid equanimity that was in direct opposition to the war waging in her heart.

But no more. Mr Thornton –  _ John _ – would answer for his faithlessness, for his unjust recriminations of her character. Fueled by indignation and driven forth by rage, Margaret did not stop to think about the wisdom of her actions as she crept out of her bedroom and slunk along the landing. At the top of the stairs, she paused and strained her hearing, listening for signs of her father and of Dixon. All would be lost if she were caught on this desperate, foolish errand – her reputation not least of all.

A wiser, calmer woman might have been deterred by the thought, but Margaret’s wisdom and poise had been swept away by the tide of her ire. Mr Thornton would not come to her, he had made that perfectly clear. So she would go to him. And theirs was not a conversation that should be had in the harsh light of day, with listening ears all around, searching for any spark that might be coaxed into a salacious scandal.

Ignoring that last whisper of better judgment in the back of her mind, warning against her current course of action, Margaret crept down the stairs, retrieved her coat and a scarf to disguise her appearance, and slunk through the front door, softly closing it behind her. A quick glance around the foggy streets revealed no witnesses to her reckless flight. Even a town like Milton slept sometimes.

She tiptoed down the front steps to the street and then continued her careful progression forward until she was certain her nocturnal perambulation would not be overheard by the occupants of her home. Then, with steady, determined steps, she turned toward the mill.

The Master of Marlborough Mills would discover that he was not the only one with a temper this night. She swore he would pay for the injury he had inflicted upon her character, her pride…and, though she was not yet ready to acknowledge as much, even to herself, to her heart.

It never even occurred to her that he might not be at the mill. John Thornton was – according to all the Milton gossips, at least, of which there were many –  _ always _ at the mill. Still, her heart lurched and she inwardly when she crept through the front gate and saw the light flickering through his office window. How much better it would have been if she had found his window darked, the mill deserted! She could have slunk back to the safety of hearth and home, tail tucked between her legs, to once more firmly replace the shroud of respectability around her shoulders.

With her quarry located, she had no excuse, and so she straightened her spine (not that she had ever truly  _ slumped _ – both breeding and corset prevented such an uncouth action), set her chin at a belligerent angle, and made her way toward the office in question.

How different the mill was at night! How quiet! The occasional tuft of cotton fluff, soft as a feather and white as snow, drifted through the air, swept aloft by random breeze and her own passing movement. But the machines lay silent and dormant, crouching monstrosities in the darkness that waited for the light of day to spring to life once more.

If she hesitated for so much as a moment, she knew she would lose her nerve, and so she did not allow herself that luxury as she charged towards his office. She did not even pause to knock on the door, let alone to wonder if he might not be inside. Instead, she flung open the door with all the anger and much more confidence than she felt and stepped into the room, placing her hands defiantly upon her hips as she faced off against he who had sent many a full-grown man quavering in their boots.

“Mr Thornton! You truly are the most  _ aggravating _ man!” she declared.

A fraction of her tattered confidence fled when he looked up at her with those blue eyes that alternated in her memory and imagination between freezing colder than the Northern winter and burning hotter than any flame. At the sight of her, he stilled, then rose to his feet to tower over her with every inch of his impressive height.

Had he somehow grown in the intervening hours since their last meeting? She didn’t remember him being  _ quite _ so tall. Or imposing. Or…oh, my, but she could see why he sent so many men fleeing before his wrath. There truly was something quite  _ daunting _ about him.

Fury was etched into every line of his face, but she could hear his struggle to keep his voice low and controlled when he demanded, “Miss Hale. What are you doing here? It is improper for you to be out at this hour.”

“What does that matter?” she shot back with a little toss of her head. “We both know what you have decided about my character. What more could I stand to lose?”

“A great deal,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Now return home before you are seen and it—”

“Not until I tell you that you are the most  _ infuriating _ man!”

For just a moment, the edges of his mouth quirked up, and she could swear he was fighting a smile. Then his features smoothed and he looked at her with that mixture of anger and condemnation once more. “Which you have now done. Is there anything else, or will you finally attend to the damage to your reputation that—”

“I’m not done!” she snapped, cutting him off, though she wasn’t entirely sure what else she wanted to say. As she struggled to find the words, he moved around his desk to stand before her. Tall, dark, imposing, and utterly tempting man that he was. Swallowing heavily, she strove to hide her body’s reaction to his proximity as she continued, “You have judged me –  _ dismissed  _ me – for one single incident, without even attempting to understand!” At this, she faltered as her innate honesty compelled her to admit, “True, I cannot explain the circumstances to you without betraying another’s secrets. But it is  _ not _ what you think, and you are determined to think the worst of me!”

When he opened his mouth to answer this accusation, she wished she could step away from the verbal injury she was sure he was about to inflict, but she forced herself to stand firm. “Your behavior this evening has certainly proven my assumption wrong,” he replied in a wry voice that hurt worse than his earlier anger.

The ire that had propelled her across town was ebbing away in the face of abject defeat of her purpose, and Margaret heard the resignation in her voice as she replied, “I would not be here if you – your faith in me fled at the first test of its sincerity. You, who once claimed to love me.”

If possible, he only straightened  _ more _ in the face of this charge. Somehow grew even larger and more imposing. With all the biting anger of his earlier proclamation, which had brought her to his door, he snarled, “My feelings for you were real. I would think, as offensive as you once found my attentions, you would find our current change of circumstances to be a relief.”

His words brought back a fraction of her earlier fire, and she tilted her head back in an attempt to look down her nose at him (which was very far back, indeed, and she feared would have led to her falling over if she hadn’t reconciled herself to looking down her nose at the top button of his shirt instead – which is how she came to process that he was not wearing a cravat, which sent her into an emotional tailspin from which she might never recover). In as haughty of a voice as she could muster, she declared, “I…I dislike you!” At that rather less-than-impressive announcement, she saw the corners of his lips soften and twitch again, and this time there was no denying it. He  _ definitely _ smiled. Not that she could blame him. She wanted to come at him like a Fury, but her lifelong lessons on good breeding, deportment, and civility constrained her tongue to speak in such tepid terms. Girding her metaphorical loins, she attempted to straighten her already ramrod-straight spine and tried again. “Immensely.”

He was still amused,  _ damn him, _ and all of her earlier resolutions about not striking another person went out the window. Over the course of their conversation, he had shifted closer to her, until he was only an arm’s length away. Breaching the remaining distance, she lifted her fists in the air and struck him with the long plane of her forearm and the fleshy part of her hand.

She might as well have struck him with a tuft of cotton, for all that her blow moved him. She tried again. “I-I hate you!” she growled, striving for more vehemence but failing miserably in the face of her lie.

She didn’t hate him. Or perhaps she did. Her heart yearned for him and fled from him in equal measure, until she didn’t know what she wanted anymore. Other than for him to look at her the way he once had, before Frederick’s visit and their awful misunderstanding.

Her voice fell to a whisper as she tried again. “I hate you.” But this time, her arms didn’t lift to pound feather-light punches against his chest – already an unspeakable breach of proper etiquette. Instead, her hands softened, unclenching, palms turning toward his body to slide up, along the fabric of his coat, fingers finally finding purchase along the strong line of his shoulders, where they dug in and refused to let go. “I do,” she offered finally in a shaky, uncertain whisper.

His eyes hadn’t left her from the moment that she entered the room. They didn’t leave her now. He watched her like a hawk assessing its prey, silently cataloguing the slightest movement, searching for a sign of weakness. His chin ducked a fraction lower, and her head fell back until her lips were inches from his own.

“I believe you,” he finally murmured in that heavy burr that haunted her dreams. He leaned in. Hesitated. Leaned in again. And then his mouth was on hers, swallowing her gasp of surprise as his arm slid around to her waist, pulling her flush against him.

Whatever he assumed of her following the interlude at the train station - and he had made his opinion on that subject quite clear - Margaret had truly never kissed a man before, and she trembled at the warmth of his lips against hers. For a man as hard as Thornton was both rumored and appeared to be, his kiss was surprisingly tender. The first brush of his lips was so soft, she almost might have thought she imagined it if not for the caress of his breath against her skin.

He hesitated after that first, mutual breach of both propriety and reason. As though he were waiting, though for what, she couldn’t be sure. His eyes asked her questions she couldn’t interpret, let alone answer, as he lifted one hand to rest against the side of her neck, stretching one thumb to brush along the curve of her cheek.

Margaret did not know what he silently asked of her and barely understood the yearnings within her own heart, but she knew she did not want to be released from his embrace. She could not bear it if he drew away from her now, abandoning her to the chill of his rejection, colder than any Milton winter. Though she tried to be brave, she felt the slight tremble in her fingertips as she lifted her hand to rest upon his, closing her eyes as she leaned in to his touch. With her eyes still closed, she turned her head to press a soft kiss against his palm.

She did not see his response, but she heard his sharp intake of breath, and then his mouth was on hers again. Her senses reeled as he kissed first her top lip, then her lower one, as though he wished to memorize the curve of her mouth. When she felt his lips part, she instinctively mirrored the action and startled when she felt the brush of his tongue along the fullness of her lower lip.

Her slight movement seemed to bring him back to himself, and he broke off this kiss, though he pressed his forehead against hers as though either incapable or unwilling to fully sever their physical contact. For her part, Margaret didn’t know what to do next. None of her lessons in deportment had addressed the proper etiquette for addressing a man after being kissed senseless. In a shaky voice, she asked, “If you believe me, why do you kiss me like this?”

“If you hate me, why do you kiss me back?” he returned, and she didn’t have an answer for him.

“I don’t know,” she admitted honestly. She felt a flush heat her cheeks, though her embarrassment stemmed less from regret over her improper behavior than from the acknowledgment that she had just bestowed her first kiss upon  _ John Thornton, _ of all people, and, well...she wanted to kiss him again.

A lifetime of teachings had instilled in her the belief that such a desire made her the worst sort of lightskirt, but wrapped in his arms, with the world around them quiet and still, it seemed as though the entire interlude was but a dream. None of it was real; when the morning sun spilled over the horizon, this would all fade away. And perhaps it was as foolish as it was reckless, but she did not want this moment to end so soon.

Clutching onto her courage, she tilted her chin forward until her mouth brushed against his once more, her efforts feeling infinitely less skillful than his had been. There was much about John - about  _ Mr Thornton, _ she corrected herself severely - that she did not like, but she did quite like his kiss.

In her virginal innocence, she was shy and even ignorant when it came to the physical act of making love, but she had enough presence of mind to know that her efforts were awkward and fumbling in comparison to his, and she blushed at the thought that he might not be as moved by this act of physical intimacy as she. Her fears were put somewhat to rest, however, when the eyes that had haunted her dreams from their first meeting fluttered closed, and she heard him moan her name as his mouth traveled along the curve of her jaw.

It was a curious thing, that she could feel his moan through the fabric of their clothes and the heavy armor of her corset. She had never stood so close to a man before - or anyone else, for that matter. Her body was pressed against his, and she found she rather liked the sound of her name on his lips and the way it rumbled through his chest. Curious to know if his name would feel so good spilling from her own mouth, she rested her cheek against his and indulged herself in this further intimacy. “John.”

Though her voice had been barely a whisper, she had no doubt that he had heard her, as he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off her feet. Margaret let out a tiny squeak of surprise, but she did not struggle as he spun her around, maneuvering her backwards towards his desk. When she felt the hard plane of wood press against the back of her thighs, she perched on its edge, relying on its strength to support her when her knees were tempted to weaken under the renewed ministrations of his lips.

Her skirts bunched between them as he stepped between her legs, and she shuddered when his hand fell to her thigh. Curling her fingers into his coat, she tried to pull him ever closer, her mouth falling to that soft patch of his neck that had been exposed by his lack of cravat. Even through the heavy fabric of her voluminous skirts, she swore she could feel the heat of his touch as his palm slid down her thigh to her knee, and then lower still.

His fingers wrapped around her ankle and then slid back up again, past the line of her stockings to rest upon the bare skin of her outer thigh. She broke off the kiss at the shock of his touch, pulling away just far enough to meet his eyes. In the dim candlelight, they blazed with their own fire, though this time it was not rage that sparked in their depths but something else.

“Margaret, you should not be here,” he growled, attempting one last time to save them both from their heedless impropriety. Though even as he did, he did not pull his hand away. Still, his voice was grave and slightly pleading when he asked, “Tell me to stop. Tell me to return you safely home.”

She could not pretend to misunderstand; nor could she feign ignorance of the dangers of their current situation. Though it would undoubtedly be wiser to do as he bid, in her heart, she knew where such capitulation would lead. He would not only return her to her home, but to the harshness of his judgment and the chill of his absence.

Of course, to do otherwise might only confirm his worst suspicions about her, but in that moment, with the memory of his kiss against her lips and the warmth of his hand upon her thigh, Margaret could not summon the will to worry about such an eventuality. So, rather than comply with his request (or, perhaps more accurately, his  _ order, _ since John Thornton could rarely be accused of  _ requesting _ anything), she lifted her chin and made her own demand. 

“Ask me to stay, John.”


	2. Chapter 2

Her invitation was bold and far more provocative than society would have deemed proper. She should by all rights be embarrassed by her behavior, and she inwardly allowed that she would be. When she returned home and was alone in the privacy of her bedroom, she would undoubtedly replay the events of this evening on an endless loop and curse herself for her foolishness. However, even that realization was not enough to compel her to leave.

“Margaret,” he murmured, the sound of her name once again sending a shiver of longing down her spine, and his hand shifted, fingers stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. In his eyes, she could see his internal battle between propriety and desire, and she was not too proud to take advantage of his momentary indecision. Cupping his face in her hands, she stroked the corners of his mouth with her thumbs.

Faint stubble scraped at her palm, and she marveled at the texture, so different from her own smooth skin. Giving in even further to temptation, she slid the pad of one thumb along the curve of his lower lip, memorizing the arc of it even as her eyes soaked in his face. As eager as she was to ignore the consequences of her behavior, she knew this idyllic interlude could not last forever. Nor could it ever be repeated. This was her one chance to touch him as she wished, to allow her eyes to drink their fill of his fine features, and she would take full advantage of the moment.

For his part, he seemed equally captivated by her, his eyes not leaving her for a single second. His voice was a growl of desire when he said her name again. “Margaret.” At last, it seemed the victor of his internal war had been declared, as he slid his hand even further up her thigh and bent to kiss her once more. She tilted her head back, lips parted, eagerly anticipating the warmth of his embrace, but a sound outside the window drew his attention at the last moment. She felt his breath caress her skin as he froze, his eyes darting to the window, and then he straightened and pulled away.

Margaret let out a soft moan of protest when she felt him leave her, but one look at his face and she knew she had lost more than his physical presence. His features had resumed a smooth mask of politeness, refusing to betray even the slightest hint of the man who had kissed her so passionately mere moments before.

“You shouldn’t be here, Miss Hale,” he said firmly, tucking his hands to his sides as though they were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. “If we were caught together, the damage to your reputation would be irrecoverable. Allow me to take you home.”

With a wild shake of her head, she scrambled to return to her feet, needing to brace herself against his desk for a moment as she regained her senses. Her legs trembled from thwarted desire and embarrassment, and her eyes fell once again to that unassuming top button below his missing cravat. “N-no,” she gulped, attempting to feign the composure that eluded her. “As you said. We cannot afford to be seen together.”

“It’s too dangerous to go alone,” he protested.

“I managed to find my way here without incident. I’m sure I can return home just as safely.” Lifting her hands to try to smooth her unruly hair back into place, she tried to lift her eyes to his, but she couldn’t quite manage it. It seemed the top button of his shirt would continue to receive her addresses, and she threw it what she hoped was a polite smile. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Good evening.”

As though her body had a will of its own, independent of her mind, she felt her arm extend to shake his hand. He stared at it, perplexed, and her cheeks heated when she realized the peril her invitation posed. After what they had just shared, it seemed dangerous to touch him again, too tempting to tuck her hand into his and pull him closer, so she could draw him into another kiss. At the realization, she snatched her hand back, pressing it to her chest to ensure it could not cause any further trouble.

Oh, what a mess she’d made of things. He was standing between her and the door, and she had no idea how she could gracefully extricate herself from this situation. At times like this – not that she’d ever experienced such times before, but she _assumed_ at times like this – the only thing to be done was to gather one’s dignity and pray that social conventions of etiquette would carry one through. Lifting her chin, she gathered as much poise as she could muster and brushed past him, like a queen walking among her subjects. Before leaving, she paused and threw him a quick nod over her shoulder. “Mr Thornton.”

Her self-possession carried her to the door of the mill, where she hesitated long enough to check for prying eyes. It appeared that the streets were empty, and so she ducked her chin and hurried towards home, praying her good fortune would extend over the course of her journey. From shadow to shadow she darted, only breathing in a sigh of relief when she had once again made it safely through her front door and up the stairs, taking refuge in the privacy of her bedchamber.

It was only then that she realized that her scarf had not accompanied her on her return journey. In her haste to escape, she had seemingly left it behind at the mill. She did not even remember discarding it, though she assuredly must have done so at some point during her shameless display of impropriety.

It was a problem for another day. Giving her head a firm shake, she tried not to think of John – of Mr Thornton – as she undressed and prepared for bed. But before she could reach for her nightgown, she hesitated, throwing a quick, surreptitious glance to her thigh. It still burned from his touch, aching to feel the warmth of his hand once more, and she saw a faint streak of what was perhaps grease marring the pale smoothness of her skin. With one finger, she traced the line of it, her breath coming in short gasps at the realization that it had undoubtedly been left behind by John’s hand. Thrust under her skirts like…well, like the shameless hoyden he believed her to be.

How could she have been so utterly without sense? Yet even as her mind railed against her behavior, her body yearned for him. Closing her eyes, she pressed her own palm against the spot where his had been, but it was a poor substitute to his touch.

With a soft sob of frustration, she scrambled under the covers and pulled them up to her chin, as though they could serve as armor against her own thoughts. And still, in the cool evening air, her lips stung from the memory of his kiss. Sucking in a deep breath, she pressed two fingers against her lower lip, trying to sooth the mild ache. Meanwhile, her mind ran in circles, unable even to decide which self-recrimination was most deserving of her attention.

How John – _Mr Thornton_ , she reminded herself severely – must hate her now! If he had thought her an amoral lightskirt before, she had surely only cemented his poor opinion of her!

Oh, why had she kissed him? She didn’t even _like_ him. True, she had come to appreciate some finer points to his character over time, no longer imagining him quite the monster she had believed him to be upon their first meeting. But regardless of how much she might have come to respect and even admire him, surely her feelings did not extend to _love_. Love couldn’t possibly feel like this, could it? When it came to him, her emotions were too complicated to be easily discerned, but surely love didn’t factor into the equation. He made her want to smile and scream and laugh and…and kiss. _That_ couldn’t be love. _That_ had to be… “Lunacy,” she muttered into the darkness.

Had he truly enjoyed her kiss – she winced - _kisses_? He seemed to have done, but she wasn’t ignorant to her own inexperience. For the sake of her dignity and reputation, she knew she should hope that he would soon forget their illicit embrace, but her pride rebelled at the idea. His kiss, she suspected, would always haunt her. She could only hope she had acquitted herself in return with at least enough finesse to warrant some measure of remembrance.

“Foolish girl,” she chastised herself, squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head into the pillow. Preferring to chase after the sleep that eluded her, rather than continue to dwell on such thoughts.

* * *

Across town, the Master of Marlborough Mills was suffering from a similarly sleepless night, one arm tucked under his head as he stared moodily at the shadows on his bedroom ceiling. What had Margaret been thinking, to come to him as she had? And why, for heaven’s sake, had she kissed him?

He suffered no illusions that the events of this evening betrayed a decided shift in her attitude toward him. Whatever her purpose in kissing him, he wasn’t such a fool that he could come to believe a woman like her could ever love a man like him. Had she not made that point _abundantly_ clear in the past? She didn’t just find his feelings for her distasteful or unwelcome; they were downright _offensive_ to her.

And yet, even in the face of her rejection, he had continued to love her. He still loved her, beyond the jealousy that ate away at his soul every time he remembered the embrace she’d exchanged with her lover on the train platform.

Who was that man, and how could he have left her as he had, to suffer the injury to her reputation alone? Whoever he was, he was the worst sort of blackguard, tarnishing her character and abandoning her to her lot. A man of honor would have returned and offered her the protection of his name, if she would have him. John knew well enough that it was not _his_ name that she sought.

 _“I hate you. I do.”_ No, he didn’t believe she hated him – she would have cared little for his opinion of her if she did, and she certainly wouldn’t have kissed him. But she didn’t love him, either, and she never would. God, he couldn’t help but love her.

When he closed her eyes, her face haunted him, and his body heated at the memory of her pressed against his own. He felt himself grow hard and bit back a moan, clenching his hands into fists to fight the temptation to take himself in hand and resolve the problem. However she had lowered herself with her secret lover, it felt a degradation to her to use her as merely an instrument of his own release.

But what had she been thinking, risking further damage to her reputation by coming to him alone and at night? And why had she kissed him as she had?

* * *

Although Mr Thornton tried to call on her the next day, inventing a pretext about wishing to borrow a book to justify his presence, a full fortnight passed before Margaret saw him again. This was less by accident than by design. Though she knew she could not hide from him forever, she wasn’t eager to face the inevitable interview. She certainly wasn’t eager to determine if her behavior had caused her to fall even further in his estimation.

But, of course, she couldn’t avoid him forever, not when he was such a particular friend of her father’s. It was inevitable that, eventually, she would try to concoct an excuse to leave the house before Mr Thornton’s arrival, and her father would ask her to stay. She just wished it hadn’t happened so _soon_. She didn’t feel strong enough to face him, still unable to explain her behavior that evening.

Well before she was comfortable doing so, her father asked her to stay to greet their guest. Unable to readily concoct an excuse to decline, she acquiesced. She tried and failed to resist the urge to check her reflection in the looking glass, hoping to make herself look presentable without appearing as though she had dressed with him in mind. Which she certainly had not done, she assured herself. It was a coincidence that she was dressed in her finest everyday dress, the one that showed her off to her best advantage. It was similarly coincidental that she had happed to wear that exact outfit on each of the prior days that she knew he was scheduled to arrive at the house.

She was _not_ trying to look her best for him. She did _not_ care what he thought of her, and she was certainly _not_ trying to attract his attention. Regardless of what her earlier behavior might imply.

As much as she tried to convince her heart of its own indifference to him, it ignored her efforts and began to race at the sound of a loud rap against the door. Pressing her hand to her stomach, she wished she could dart into the kitchen and hide until he took his leave. Unfortunately, she’d already been asked to greet him upon his arrival, as Dixon was otherwise occupied.

There was nothing to be done for it but to get it over with, and perhaps that was for the best. She couldn’t possibly avoid him forever, and the sooner they agreed to put the whole incident behind them, the sooner life could get back to normal. Her hand remained pressed against her stomach, and she forced a tight smile on her face as she pulled open the door to greet him.

In defiance of her resolution to behave normally in his presence, she felt her breath catch when her eyes met his, and she froze, her body blocking the entrance. “Miss Hale,” he finally greeted her, his voice breaking her free of her temporary paralysis.

She almost tripped over her skirt as she scrambled backward to allow him inside. She intended to direct him immediately up the stairs to join her father, but, unable to tear her eyes from his, the words simply wouldn’t come. The two of them stood together in the hall, his body far too close to hers for comfort.

Overcome by nerves, Margaret wet her lips with a quick flick of her tongue and felt her heart race even faster when his gaze dropped to her mouth. She remembered the press of his body against hers, the warmth of his skin, the taste of his kiss. Oh, this was dreadful. How were they ever to get back on equal footing when the memory of that evening tormented her so?

“Mr Thornton,” she began, her voice unsteady. “I…that is…” Her voice trailed off in the absence of any intelligible conclusion to that sentence, and she threw him a desperate look. “My-my father is upstairs,” she finally managed in a tortured whisper.

He hesitated and looked as though he might speak, but he divested himself of his hat and coat and headed upstairs in silence. The greeting he exchanged with her father drifted down to her from the upper landing, and she sighed, leaning back against the wall to gather both her thoughts and her breath.

She had missed him. Even as she’d avoided him, she’d missed him. Missed his company and conversation. Missed the sound of his voice. When had his deep, Northern burr become so familiar, so _desired_ , that its absence had been felt keenly? How long had it been since her ears had come to prefer the harsher accents of the people of the North to the softer, gentler tones of her Southern brethren?

Or was it just _his_ voice she preferred so much? No, surely not.

Giving her head a quick shake, Margaret leapt away from the wall and headed toward the kitchen to retrieve their tea. Such thoughts would do her no good, not when her whole purpose was to _avoid_ dwelling upon the man upstairs.

With that first, awkward meeting behind them, she reassured herself that they would once again be able to carry on as indifferent acquaintances. True, they hadn’t spoken of that scene in his office, and she was certain there were things he would wish to say to her about it. But for her part, she was content to put it behind them both without a word. The sooner it was forgotten, the better.

Her reassurances turned out to be fruitless, however, as she discovered immediately upon joining the men already deep in epistemological conversation. She had barely taken her first step across the threshold into the room when Mr Thornton turned to look at her, and she almost fumbled the tray in her hands. Tearing her gaze away from his, she tried to calm her racing heart with mundane domesticity, setting out the tray of biscuits and pouring out the tea.

Once poured, however, she threw the drink in her hand a perplexed glower, wondering how she could pass it over to their guest without having to move closer to him. She knew well enough the havoc proximity to him played on her nerves, and she was afraid she might slip and create a scene. However, in defiance of her glare, the cup refused to dematerialize and appear before him. He was there, it was here, and her duties as hostess demanded that she breach the distance between them to bring the two together.

Throwing herself a soft, irritated huff, she stepped toward him, holding out the saucer for him to take. When he wrapped his fingers around the delicate china, his fingers brushed against hers, the edge of his forefinger brushing against hers in an act that felt too deliberate to be accidental. The cup bobbed, tea nearly spilling over the side, as she snatched her hand away and took a quick step back.

Her father’s voice stopped her retreat a moment later as he broke off mid-sentence to call out her name. “Please. Join us,” he invited her eagerly, and Margaret had to bite back a groan as she nodded at him in capitulation. Still, she tried not to draw attention to herself as she took her seat, hoping that the two men would forget her presence soon enough.

If only she could forget Mr Thornton’s presence so easily. It was rude to stare, and so she pretended her attention was captured by other objects, even as she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Every time he raised his cup to take a sip, she yearned for his kiss. When he gestured with his hand, she found herself enthralled, her body responding to the memory of those long, elegant fingers against her bare skin. She burned for him, and the place between her thighs that remained a mystery even to her began to throb.

It took all her willpower to feign casual indifference, to measure her breathing and still the nervous fluttering of her hands. She made regrettably poor company that evening, she feared, as every question put to her was answered with shortness of tone and as much economy of words as she could manage.

Finally – _mercifully_ – the lesson came to an end, and Margaret prepared to flee to the sanctuary of her room. Once again, her father thwarted her, asking her to show their guest out, and she was of course too well-bred to refuse. However, while manners dictated that she escort him downstairs, they did not demand that the two converse while she did so, and so she bit the inside of her cheek and carried herself down the stairs in silence.

It was a temporary stay of execution, however, as she could hardly shove him out onto the front step without a word. Unable to meet his eyes, she forced a smile as she said politely, “Mr Thornton. Thank you for coming this evening.” Eager for him to depart and dreading it in equal measure, she retrieved his hat and held it out to him, hoping she could convey with her perfunctory goodbye her unwillingness to discuss the topic that loomed between them.

His hand closed over hers where she clasped the brim of his hat, trapping it in place, and her eyes shot to his in surprise. “Miss Hale. We must discuss what happened at our last meeting.”

“No!” she blurted desperately before quickly lowering her voice to avoid being overheard. Her eyes fell once again to his shirtfront to address the buttons there. “That is…I don’t see any need to dwell upon…it was a momentary lapse of judgment. I see no reason why we should discuss it! I am sure we are both in agreement that it cannot – that it _will_ not – happen again.”

For a long, horrible moment, she thought he wouldn’t reply. Or, worse, that he would but only to argue the point. When he did speak, his voice was subdued. “I agree.”

“Very well, then,” she said with a sigh of…surely it was _relief_ and not _regret_. “I can see no reason why we shouldn’t put the whole matter behind us.”

His hand still trapped hers in its grasp, firm and unyielding, and she felt the brush of his finger as it stroked the soft skin at the base of her thumb. “Can’t you?”

Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she meant to utter an unequivocal _no_ , but as they always did, his eyes caught her. Trapped her. Pinned her in place, as surely as his hand over hers. “No?” she attempted, the upward lilt of the word betraying her own indecision.

And then – _heavens_ , how did that happen? – her free hand curled around his neck, and she drew his mouth down to hers. If her previous actions presented a threat to her reputation, this kiss was downright _suicidal_. They were standing in the hallway to her own house, where her father or Dixon might interrupt them at any time. Yet even that wasn’t enough to return her presence of mind, as she pushed him back against the wall and deepened the kiss, determined to acquit herself with more finesse this time than she had the last.

She had missed him. The sound of his voice, and the strength of his presence, and the intelligence of his conversation. And _this_. She had missed _this_. His mouth swallowed her soft moan, and she heard the faint clatter of pins falling to the floor when he thrust his hand into her hair. If her kiss was hungry, his was ravenous as he scraped his teeth along her lower lip, chuckling deep in his throat when she gasped in pleasure.

Margaret’s head fell back, exposing her neck, and he accepted the silent offer to explore the line of her jaw with his mouth, kissing a path down the side of her neck, just beneath her ear. At the touch of his tongue against her fevered skin, she shuddered, pressing closer to him, longing for the feel of his arms wrapped around her. _“John,”_ she begged, although she could not have explained what she was requesting of him if he’d asked.

Breaking off the kiss, he swept his thumb along her lower lip. His voice, thick with desire sunk into her heart, until the words penetrated her consciousness. “Did he kiss you like this, your other lover?”

Who? _Frederick!_ His meaning washed over her like a splash of cold water, the shock clearing her mind and sweeping away the lust that had clouded her thoughts. Pressing her hand against his chest, she shoved as hard as she could, though, with the wall behind him, he had nowhere to go. Instead, she succeeded in propelling herself backward, out of his embrace, yanking her hand out from under his as she did so.

“No,” she said. In answer to his question, or in response to the situation in which they had once again found themselves? _“No.”_

How could she have forgotten his accusations against her character? Worse, why did she seem so determined to reinforce his low opinion of her? It didn’t matter that he kissed her; she had lost the full measure of his esteem the moment he misconstrued the scene on the train platform. He might desire her, but that didn’t change the fact that he also hated her now. She felt the sudden sting of tears, but she refused to let them fall as she yanked open the door and threw him her haughtiest glare. “ _Good night_ , Mr Thornton.”

He said nothing in response, merely glowering at her for a long moment before replacing his hat on his head and storming out into the dark and the cold. It was all she could do not to slam the door behind him, and she forced herself to ascend the stairs with steady, measured footsteps. It wouldn’t do to reveal her distress to the other occupants of the household, inviting questions she couldn’t begin to answer.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , she told herself firmly. _Let him detest you, if he chooses. You hate him anyway. You_ hate _him!_

So why did it feel like her heart was breaking?


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh, Bessie. How I wish you were here,” Margaret whispered into the wind as she stepped off her usual path through the graveyard and lowered herself onto the sparse grass that sprouted between the headstones. Hailing from such different backgrounds, theirs had been an unlikely friendship in the beginning, but the two women had shared genuine affection in the end. It still hurt to remember Bessie’s pale face and the wheezing cough that had eventually carried her away, and she mourned her friend’s absence every bit as much as she longed for the other woman’s counsel.

Bessie had been her first – and, for a time, only – true friend in this godforsaken place, and in her absence, Margaret had nobody to confide in, nobody with whom to share her secrets, such as they were. Closing her eyes, she pretended her friend was sitting by her side, casting aside the illness that had taken her as she reveled in the brisk afternoon air. “I’ve made such a mess of things with John.”

 _“Oh, John, is it?”_ In her imagination, the wind that whipped around her carried a saucy laugh and the voice that had once been so dear to her.

“It isn’t like that!” she protested weakly. It wasn’t hard to picture Bessie’s disbelieving expression, and she sighed. “Although I have behaved shamefully. Even if you were here, I doubt you would ever believe it.”

_“I don’t know what you’re so upset about. I told you before, you could do a lot worse than John Thornton.”_

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I may have kissed him, but I have no designs on Mr Thornton. He saw me with Fred and misunderstood, and now he will never forgive me. Sometimes I wish I could tell him the truth, but—” She broke off, giving her head another shake. “No. He once claimed to love me, but he was all too eager to think the worst of me. I could never love a man who had so little faith in me. In fact, I think I might hate him for it.”

Her voice lacked conviction, and the Bessie that lived in her memory and her imagination laughed once more. _“Are you sure about that? I don’t know how things are done in the South, but up here in the North, we don’t often go around kissing men we hate.”_

“I do,” Margaret protested weakly, the wind carrying away her words and the memory of her friend’s laughter. “I hate him.” She _wanted_ to hate him, at least. If she hated him, maybe the reminder of his poor opinion of her wouldn’t hurt so much.

* * *

John was returning from the shops the next time he saw her. She didn’t notice him at first, and he took advantage of the opportunity her ignorance afforded him to soak her in. As he watched, a breeze swept down the street, blowing her hair into her face, and she brushed her hair off her cheek with one graceful finger.

He had not seen her since their encounter in the hall, when his tongue had gotten the better of him. How he’d wished he could take back those words the moment they’d left his mouth, but of course that was not within his power. Though he regretted that his honesty had caused her pain, he consoled himself with the thought that it had been for the best. Passion and desire for her had overcome reason. Her kisses may have been freely given, but he had acted disgracefully in accepting them. Had they been caught, honor would have demanded that he offer for her hand, and the expectations of society would have required her to accept. In time, when her ardor had cooled, she would have come to resent being trapped into marriage with a man who was so beneath her, a man whose affection had so offended her, and that resentment would eventually turn to hate.

It was for the best, in the end, that he drove her away. Knowing her distaste for him didn’t stop his body’s reaction to her, however. It never had. She was so beautiful, it took his breath away. The sight of her made him forget himself, and he could have stared at her for hours, for all the world looking like a lovesick fool, were it not for the soft murmur of his name in his ear. Recollecting himself, he drew his attention back to the woman on his arm, silently chiding himself for his incivility when he saw that she had noticed his distraction. Ann Latimer was everything he should desire in a partner. She was young, beautiful, accomplished, and she understood the worth of Milton and its people. Beyond that, his mother had not been subtle in attempting to promote the match, hoping an attachment would grow over time that would put all thoughts of Margaret Hale from his mind.

For the sake of her pleasure, he didn’t tell her that her hopes were in vain. He admired Miss Latimer and enjoyed her company, but not even her soothing presence could drive Margaret from his mind. Or his heart. Miss Latimer's years of schooling in Switzerland had polished her manners and driven away the forthright honesty that was innate to people from the North. Her conversation was always agreeable because of her tendency to profess indifferent agreement with any opinion put forth to her. He did not fault her for this inclination – she only behaved as any proper young lady in Society might do. But when she demurred to his opinion, he missed the spark in Margaret’s eyes that flared with her challenge.

His companion soothed once more by his attention, he lifted his head and glanced in the direction where he had last seen Margaret. Just at that moment, she turned to face him, and their eyes met. A small smile curved the lush bow of her mouth until her gaze drifted to the hand resting daintily on his arm, and then she turned away from him, hiding her face from his view.

Staring at the soft tendrils of hair that curved at the nape of her neck, he nearly wondered if the sight of another woman on his arm had caused her pain. That was not his intent, of course, but he would be lying if he pretended that he didn’t wish he had the same impact on her that she had on him. But no, it had undoubtedly not been jealousy that had flickered across her countenance before she turned away. She would no more be jealous over him than she would ever come to love him. Even now, with her reputation tarnished, she was far above the likes of him.

In a moment, they would draw near to where she was standing, and courtesy would dictate that they acknowledge each other before returning on their way. Miss Latimer's hand tightened slightly on his arm as they drew to a halt, but he could find no fault in her manners as she and Margaret exchanged polite greetings. For his part, John attempted to do the same, but the words felt thick in his throat, and his tone skirted the line of civility. He longed to look into her eyes once more, but her gaze remained lowered until courtesy had been satisfied and they each carried on their way.

Back at the mill, John greeted his mother with a short nod as he entered the room with Miss Latimer still on his arm. She was clearly pleased to see the two of them together, and for her sake, he wished he could tame his unruly heart. Miss Latimer left his side to join Fanny in chatter and idle gossip, and he let the sound of their voices wash over him as he took refuge behind his newspaper. Though he pretended to read, he didn’t process a single word, too preoccupied with thoughts of _her_. For his mother’s sake, he would try to fall for Miss Latimer's charms, but he suspected it would take far more than gentle manners and a pretty smile to extricate a certain outspoken Southerner from his heart.

* * *

“I must apologize, but my father has been temporarily delayed. I’m sure he’ll return home soon, if you would care to wait.” Margaret’s voice was cool and polite, but her gaze remained fixed straight ahead as she broke the news.

“I can return at a later time,” he offered, but she shook her head.

“No, I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I know he was looking forward to your appointment.”

Divesting himself of his hat, coat, and gloves, John offered her a slight nod, acquiescing to her request. He followed her in silence up the stairs and into her father’s sitting room, where they both tried and failed to pretend as though nothing amiss had ever passed between them. She still refused to look at him, even as he found himself unable to look away from her. Finally, when he could take it no longer, he began, “Margaret—"

“Mr Thornton,” she interjected, gently rebuking him for his familiarity. “I apologize that I have not yet offered you any tea. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go—”

“To hell with the tea,” he snapped, his temper momentarily getting the best of him. She had moved to brush past him, heading for the door, but he reached out and captured her wrist in a firm grip. “We need to talk about what happened between us the last time I was here.”

A muscle in her throat flexed as she swallowed. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

He lifted his eyebrows at her in feigned surprise. “First I kissed you, then you kissed me, and you don’t think we need to talk about it?” When she just shook her head, his anger grew. “Why did you come to me that night, Margaret? Was it to see if my passion for you was truly dead? Or had you been abandoned by your other lover and were in search of a new protector?”

When her head whipped around to face him, he saw her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brightened with anger. “ _No!_ ” she cried. “I told you that what you saw…it wasn’t what you think! I have no other lover!”

Stepping toward her, he demanded once more, “Then why did you come?”

“I don’t know!” she cried in return. “Because I was angry that you didn’t believe in me! Because I wanted you to understand! Because—” her voice suddenly faltering, she admitted in an undertone, “because I’m drawn to you. I cannot explain it, and I have tried to fight it. But it is no use.”

With a twist of her arm, she pulled her wrist out of his grip, but to his surprise, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she lifted her hand to his face, cupping her cheek in his palm. “I’m drawn to you,” she said again. “I cannot stop thinking about you or wishing—”

His heart ached when she trailed off, and he was afraid she could see the love he still carried for her in his eyes as he asked softly, “What do you want from me?”

Her body swayed toward him, and he thought she might draw him down for a kiss. Instead, she dropped her hand to her side and shifted away. “Nothing. I want nothing from you. I should go prepare the tea.”

His heart cracked when she moved toward the doorway, and he called for her before she could leave. At the sound of her name, she hesitated, her back to him, and then turned slowly to face him.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded with her, his voice soft and sad. “Please. Stay.”

* * *

Margaret knew what he was asking of her. She could perhaps have claimed ignorance of the danger that lay in store for her, the night she’d journeyed across town to confront him in his office. She might even be able to plead innocence in their previous encounter in the downstairs hallway of her home. But she could claim neither now. Her father was delayed, and Dixon was out on an errand, leaving her and John alone. If she stayed, she knew what it would mean.

Closing her eyes, she recalled her earlier one-sided conversation with Bessie’s memory, and all the reasons that she knew she should turn around and walk away. Certainly for the sake of her reputation, she knew she should leave. But it was as she had said. She was drawn to him. She could no more leave him now than she could fly.

Swallowing heavily, she turned her back on propriety and all of the lessons that had been drilled into her head from the time she was a child and took one step toward him. Two. Her fall from respectability was almost worth it, she realized, when she saw the smile that crossed his face and softened his features.

His eyes were filled with wonder as she stepped up to him, and he stroked the back of one finger down her cheek as though to reassure himself that she was truly there. Then he bowed his head and captured her mouth in a kiss.

* * *

John had counseled himself to exercise caution and avoid doing anything rash, but his better intentions fled at the touch of her lips against his. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifted her off her feet, spinning her toward the nearby table. It was hardly the ideal situation, but he’d dreamed about picking up where they had left off from the moment he’d backed away from her in his office. Now, with her in his arms, his entire world had shrunk to fit into this tiny room, this moment, and the need to feel the warmth of her skin under his hands.

Margaret – _bless her_ – didn’t protest as he perched her on the edge of the table, which rocked dangerously but miraculously held under the unexpected weight. Her legs fell open as he continued to kiss her, skirts bunching when he stepped between her thighs.

Their labored breaths carried through the quiet room, and John longed to tell her about the feelings he still carried in his heart, but he knew it would be foolhardy to do so. She had spoken to him of desire but not of love, and he suspected that reminding her of his unwanted devotion would only succeed in pushing her away.

If he could not tell her of his love, he would show her, he decided as her hands skittered across his chest, pushing the jacket back from his shoulders and down his arms. “Please, John. I want – I want to touch you,” she confessed, making a grab for his cravat. It took a few seconds – and his assistance – but they finally got it untied, and then she tore the length of fabric from around his neck and tossed it aside. The top of his shirt gaped open, and she leaned in, pressing her mouth against the pulse that raced just below the skin.

With a moan of pleasure, John slid his hands under her skirts and caressed her legs. Wrapping his hands around her calves, he lifted them, showing her how to anchor them over his hips. She locked her ankles behind him and clutched onto the fine fabric of his shirt as his fingers slid along her inner thighs. When he stroked her outer folds, teasing her, she gasped, her hands tightening on his shoulders.

Pulling back slightly, he let his eyes sweep over her face as he stroked her, helping her grow accustomed to his touch. For the rest of his life, he wanted to remember this moment and the way that Margaret looked with her eyes wide and bright and her face flushed with desire.

“J-John?” she breathed as he slid one finger inside of her. “I-I don’t – are you sure—”

“Shh,” he whispered, ducking his head to kiss her once more. “It’s all right, love. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

The endearment had fallen from his lips before he’d even realized it had formed in his mouth, but she didn’t seem to have noticed. With his thumb, he located her tiny nub and teased it as he skid a second finger inside of her. His own body was hard and throbbing, but he tried to ignore it as he focused his attention on her pleasure.

This was not the way he had imagined making love to her for the first time. In his fantasies, their lovemaking had been sanctified by God and consecrated in the marital bed. Such dreams were not to be, however, and if he could not love her as his wife, he would at least attempt to give her no cause to regret giving herself over to him.

He felt her legs start to quiver, her hand shaking against the nape of his neck as she crushed her lips to his, and he knew that she was about to find her release. Nipping her lower lip with his teeth, he reveled in the tiny moans coming from deep in her throat every time his fingers thrust inside her. Then her lips parted, her breath caught, and her thighs wrapped around his hips as she became undone.

When she collapsed against him, he stilled but did not pull away. With one hand still inside her, he retrieved the other from beneath her skirts and stroked it soothingly along the curve of her spine until she had gathered her wits.

Finally, she lifted off his chest and tilted her head back to look him in the eye, and he pressed a kiss against her temple. Her face was still flushed with passion, and John closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath in an attempt to calm his racing heart. He could not in good conscience continue to overstep the bounds of propriety, and she deserved better than the treatment she was receiving at his hands. What had he been thinking, to molest her like this, in her father’s own sitting room? He may not be a “proper” gentleman – indeed, like most Northerners, he could rarely been accused of being _gentle_ at all – but neither was he a rutting animal, whatever Margaret might think of him.

Unable to meet her eyes, he dropped his gaze as he gently slid his hand from between her thighs. But before he could step back, out of her embrace, Margaret tightened the grip of her legs around his hips and shook her head. “No,” she breathed before repeating back to him the words he had spoken to her earlier. “Stay here. With me.”

His honor demanded that he ignore her request, but his heart and body commanded him to stay. Hesitating, he attempted to gather his wits, to remind her of the danger they courted, but reason fled in the wake of her next words, softly spoken in sudden shyness. “I want you.”

 _I want you._ They were not the words of love and affection that his soul longed to hear, but they were a balm to his broken heart nonetheless. Whatever else she might think of him, whatever gentle words and inoffensive attentions might have caused her to turn to another lover after rejecting his suit, she was not entirely indifferent to him, after all. “Margaret, love,” he moaned, wrapping his hand behind her neck and drawing her in for a kiss.

She needed no further persuasion, giving herself over to his embrace with a sweetness that soothed his aching heart, wrapping her arms around his neck as she drew him to her. When he turned his head to direct his consideration to the perfect shell of her ear, too long overlooked in his attentions, he heard the words she muttered softly against the fine fabric of his shirt. “Don’t leave me, John. Please.”

Oh, how little she seemed to be aware of it, but he could deny her nothing. He did not know the exact moment that he had given himself over to her completely, but he had long recognized that she had merely to ask, and he would do her bidding. If she asked him for the moon, he would find a way to bring it down from the sky for her or die trying. And so her softly spoken plea broke what shreds of self-restraint remained, and all constraints of reason and honor fled in the wake of her desire.

Inwardly cursing the clothes that acted as barriers between them, preventing him from exploring her body with his hands and his mouth as he so longed to do, John wrapped his hands around her hips, drawing her forward to press himself against her, showing her the evidence of her desire. She gasped, hesitated, but did not draw away, gratifying his arching her body against him in return.

It was wrong. Most improper. But John no longer cared as he reached for the fastening of his trousers until he was finally free of their tight constraints. It took a bit more fumbling to make his way back under her skirts, the yards of fabric bunched between them a not-insignificant deterrent, but her smooth skin guided his fingers back to her soft folds. Drawn in by her warmth, he stroked her until he was assured her body was ready for him, and then he entered her in one strong thrust.

At his sudden invasion, Margaret let out a sharp cry, her body going rigid in his arms, her fingers trembling where they dug into his shoulders. He stilled immediately, the lust that had clouded his thoughts swept away by a singular realization: however her other lover had degraded her, he had not acted as dishonorably as John had just done. She had been an innocent, and he had just taken her maidenhead.

Closing his eyes, John growled a curse that was far too coarse for her delicate sensibilities and pressed his forehead against the curve of her shoulder as he struggled in vain to catch his breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He told himself he should withdraw, but once her initial shock had faded, she seemed disinclined to push him away. Instead, while he cursed himself for taking advantage of her innocence, she shifted in his arms. His breath escaped him in a tortured hiss as his body responded instantly to the slight, exploratory roll of her hips. “Don’t,” he groaned between gritted teeth. “Remain still. I-I can’t—”

But when had Margaret ever heeded his warnings? She ignored them now, the expression in her eyes dreamy and distant as she rolled her hips again, this time with more confidence. She breathed a word, too softly to be heard, although he thought it might have been, “…curious…”

His efforts to snatch at the threads of his self-control were fruitless. He had longed for her in vain for too long; his body was no longer willing to be bound by the constraints of his reason, and he thrust into her again. She arched against him, meeting the thrust of his hips with one of her own, her thighs falling wider to welcome him.

This was not what she deserved. Not ever, but certainly not for her first experience with physical passion. She deserved tenderness and care. Her Southern sensibilities made her softer than those of the North, and a gentleman worthy of her would have wooed her gently, restraining his darker impulses as he eased her into the act of lovemaking.

But John was not a soft man; he could not even pretend to be so, for her sake. Where he should have asked, he had a tendency to demand. Where he should exercise caution, he exhibited no restraint. His thrusts were strong and powerful as he drove into her, driving forcefully toward his own release until he pressed his mouth against the side of her neck and poured himself into her with a muffled cry.

When he returned to himself, he felt the slight pressure of her hand smoothing down the line of his back in a soothing gesture that might have brought tears to his eyes if such a thing were in his nature. It unmanned him, that she should show him such tenderness when he had shown her none. If anyone deserved compassion and soothing apology, it was her, for the manner in which he had just debased her.

After the slights he had made against her character and reputation, he had made the darkest mark of all. In the aftermath of their reckless coupling, sense finally prevailed, and honor dictated only one course of option, as distasteful to her as it would be.

Drawing away from the comfort of her touch, John angled his body away from her view as he pulled himself to rights, wanting to spare her the shock of seeing his naked form, at least. As he searched for his discarded jacket and cravat, he heard the rustle of fabric behind him as Margaret attempted to smooth the wrinkles in her gown. Once he had returned himself to some semblance of order, he clasped his hands behind his back and turned to face her.

“My apologies for – I think – I know you—” as he had through his proposal, he found himself fumbling with his words, making a mess of things. With a huff of irritation at his own incompetence, he tried again. “With your permission, I will call on your father tomorrow to ask for his consent to take your hand in marriage.”

Her eyes flew to his face. “What? No, surely that is unnecessary!”

He would not let her obvious dismay shake his resolve. “Margaret, you must understand that we have no other recourse.”

Her face flushed with indignation, she stepped away from him. “I recognize that you once again think it your duty to save my reputation, but my opinion on this matter remains unchanged. Unlike you, my father and I have no servants, to whisper about us behind closed doors. Nobody need know about this…this…our _situation_ , so there is no need to rescue me from ridicule—”

“I know that you find me _distasteful_ , but you must be reasonable. What we have done – our situation has changed!”

“Was this always your plan, then? You couldn’t _purchase_ my hand, so you thought you could force me into a marriage of _responsibility_ when you know that is the last thing I want?”

Her words pierced him like a dagger, and he bowed his head. Like a ferocious beast, his temper roared inside his chest, fighting to break free, to answer her contempt and her unjust accusations. For perhaps the first and only time in his life, he did not give way to anger and wounded pride, and he bit back words he would later regret.

“We may not need the gossip of servants for everyone to know what we’ve done. Has it occurred to you that you might—” his voice faltered as he prepared to speak of things even he knew were not discussed in polite company such as hers, “—you might be with child?” Her hand flew to her stomach, and she let out a gasp of dismay. As she angled her body away from view, a terrible silence fell between them.

She would never believe in his innocence – and perhaps she was not entirely wrong in refusing to do so. He was innocent of the charges she had laid at his feet, but he was not without blame. He had not come to her house with the intent to seduce her, and it was shameful how little thought he had given to the consequences of their actions while he held her in his arms. But he had allowed desire to overcome reason. He had taken her innocence. He had made love to her, knowing it unlikely that her feelings for him had changed.

“I am not a…a gentle man,” he conceded softly. “But I hope I may claim to be a good one. There is little enough I can offer you—” given the state of his mill’s finances in the aftermath of the strike, he was not even certain he could offer her security, “—but I can promise you that I will always treat you with honor.” He scowled even as the words left his mouth, knowing that it was his dishonorable actions that had put her in this situation. “You may always depend upon my honesty. My devotion. If it is within my power, I will do everything I can to make you happy. You will have no cause to regret marrying me.”

“No,” she agreed in an undertone. “Except I do not love you. I never have.” Her words did not come as a shock, but they did bring no small measure of pain. “I never will.”

He winced, turning away from her, but he did not leave. Her words at his soul, but his heartache did not eclipse reality. They did not have the luxury of ignoring what had transpired between them. “Margaret—” he began.

“ _Miss Hale_ , if you don't mind,” she corrected him firmly, and he swallowed heavily.

“Miss Hale,” he amended with a dour glare, but she seemed disinclined to let him continue.

“I need time,” she blurted, turning toward the window. “To think. I – you cannot expect me to – I need time.”

Bowing his head, he gave in to her request. One day surely couldn’t hurt, and it might be the only measure of kindness he could offer her in this situation. “Very well. I’ll call upon you tomorrow.”

His words received no acknowledgement or reply. With nothing left to say, John turned and fled down the stairs, abandoning his coat, hat, and gloves without a second thought as he escaped into the cold evening air.

 _“I do not love you. I never have. I never will.”_ Her words only confirmed what he had already known. She would never care for him the way he felt for her. She would never be his. Even though he was doomed to always – _always_ – be hers.


	4. Chapter 4

John’s temper had cooled by the time he returned to the mill, assisted by the cold winter chill that whipped down the narrow streets and reminded him all too painfully that he had left his outer garments behind. How foolish of him, he recognized with a sardonic smile as he strode through the mill’s front gate. His race across town without a coat had attracted its share of askance glances from passersby, but the fulsome expression on his face deterred both question and comment. Any other man might have had cause to worry that his inappropriate attire might attract salacious gossip, which might eventually find Margaret as its target. However, the Master of Marlborough Mills had long carried a reputation for a fierce temper, and so he had little cause for concern that she be suspected as the cause for his black mood on this particular day.

As he neared the door to the mill, he cast a glance at his darkened office window. His preoccupation with Margaret had distracted him from his duties for too long. The heavy weight of his responsibilities pressed upon him, weighing down his shoulders with the reminder of tasks left undone. Work would provide a welcome distraction from memories of Margaret’s touch and her rejection, but he reminded himself that there was one more task he needed to fulfil before he could turn his attention to more commercial matters.

At this hour, he knew his mother would be at home. He had to tell her of the offer he had made, though he would naturally never disclose the reason for it. He had considered keeping his own council until the morning, when he received Margaret’s answer to his suit. However, he knew his mother’s low opinion of the woman he loved, and if the reply he received was in the affirmative, she would need time to grow accustomed to the idea.

It would not do to join her as he was, his clothes in disarray from his exertions, both in his flight across town and in the pleasure he had found in Margaret’s arms. Before entering the drawing room to break the news, he took a moment to return to his room, to change clothes and pull himself to rights.

As he finished tying the folds of a fresh cravat, he paused by his looking glass, gazing at his reflection with a critical eye. Though his lips still burned from her kiss and he imagined he could scent the smell of her skin when he closed his eyes, his appearance no longer betrayed his previous actions. He would pause downstairs long enough to tell his mother of his impending engagement, and then he would head back to the mill, immersing himself in his work to forget the words that had met his proposal.

 _“_ _Was this always your plan, then? You couldn’t purchase my hand, so you thought you could force me into a marriage of responsibility when you know that is the last thing I want?”_

She did not have the right of it, and if she accepted his suit, he would find a way to prove as much to her. Although the situation seemed dire at present, he had some small cause to hope she might one day come to care for him. She had given herself to him with a sweetness and a passion that suggested that she was not indifferent to him, at least.

 _“_ _I do not love you. I never have. I never will.”_

He turned away from his reflection with a ferocious scowl. Margaret’s words had hurt, but he could not fault her for her honesty. He knew she did not care for him and had never been so foolish as to convince himself otherwise. Besides, he had more pressing matters to attend to at the moment, and he couldn’t afford to let his unrequited love distract him from his purpose. He had to tell his mother of his engagement, which would likely be forthcoming in the morning.

Schooling his features into a mask of indifference, he joined his mother in the drawing room. Her head was bent in concentration as she focused on her needlework, and he engaged in perfunctory small talk as he pondered how to broach the subject of his probable engagement. It didn’t take long for impatience to get the better of him, however, and he got straight to the point. “I have been to see Miss Hale.” His words distracted her from her work, which fell to her lap as she looked up at him. “I have made her an offer.”

His mother was not inclined to give in to rash emotion, and she fell silent as she gave him a considering look. “Miss Hale has opened _herself_ up to the gossip of servants and public ridicule. If you think to save her from the consequence of her own actions by offering her the protection of your name, then you should know better than to think you could ever convince her to—”

“I don’t wish to marry her because I want to save her reputation. I wish to marry her because I love her. More now than I did the last – after the riot,” he corrected himself, not wishing to dwell on that particular memory.

It was, unfortunately, the truth. While his actions earlier in the evening _necessitated_ that they marry, they were not the cause for his _desire_ to do so. He wished to marry her for the same reason he always had: because he loved her. His love for her was untouched by time. By rejection. By the knowledge of her other lover.

The anger he had felt towards her since that night at the train station was unjust, he knew. Whatever right he might have claimed as her father’s friend to censure her for her improper behavior, for the gossip that she had invited, he had no right to more. He was not her brother or her father, who would have borne the responsibility to curb her behavior. Nor was he her lover, who should have claim to her fidelity. For her part, he doubted he could even lay claim to being her friend, to offer her advice and counsel.

His ire stemmed from jealousy, injured pride, and a wounded heart. He was angry at her for having chosen another man over him, for deeming dishonor preferable to accepting his heart. He showed her his temper so that she would not see his pain. But his anger was fleeting, ebbing and flowing like the tide. His love for her was steadfast and true, even if he professed otherwise.

His mother scowled. “You know she thinks too highly of herself to ever choose you,” she pointed out in her usual straightforward manner. John knew it was love of him that compelled her to honesty. Not the type to ever mince words, she was only trying to help; she didn’t intend to wound him. Her words stung nevertheless, since he knew she only spoke the truth. There was no question of Margaret having him, if she had any other choice.

“I believe she will accept me this time,” he murmured, moving behind the woman on the couch to rest a hand on her shoulder. “But whatever her answer, I’m asking you not to judge her too harshly. I don’t care about idle gossip, and neither should you. I’ll not have her treated with disrespect in this house.”

His mother huffed in irritation, but she lifted one hand to place over his. “Oh, I’ll treat her well enough,” she agreed in a sour voice. “As well as is in my nature, at any rate. For your sake. Not for hers.” Rising to her feet, she turned to fix him with a critical eye, making him relieved that he had taken the time to set himself to rights. “Though she’s never understood you, and she certainly doesn’t deserve you.”

Such was his mother’s love for him that he knew it unlikely she would ever look on Margaret with any more charity of mind than she did at present, so he bit back the denial that came readily to his lips and bowed his head.

Stepping forward, his mother reached up to straighten his cravat and smooth the shoulders of his jacket. “I know you love her, John, but it may not be too late. Your engagement hasn’t been settled on. There has been no announcement. Take tonight to think about what it is that you’re doing.”

“You would have me shame her by withdrawing my offer? To behave so dishonorably?”

Her expression was grave but sincere as her hands halted on his shoulders and she met his eyes. “I would have you marry someone who knows the man you are and loves you for it. I care about your happiness. Nothing more.”

Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss against her cheek. “Then pray that she accepts me, Mother, for I cannot be happy without her.”

* * *

Across town, Margaret had taken to her room to gather her thoughts in Mr Thornton’s absence. She also found it necessary to change her dress; it would likely take an entire morning for her to iron out the wrinkles in the one she had worn during her tryst. She had barely managed to change before she heard the front door open, and she paused to touch up her hair before stepping into the hallway, throwing her father her brightest smile in greeting.

“Is John still here?” he asked with pleasure as he joined her on the upper landing. At her negative response, a slight frown crossed his brow. “Oh. I thought I saw his things down below.”

Her face flushing with embarrassment, she murmured, “He was called away quite suddenly. Something to do with the mill, I believe. I’m afraid he may have forgotten them in his haste.”

His face maintained its abstracted frown. “That’s unlike him,” he commented. “I am sorry to have missed him. I hope he wasn’t too offended.”

To the contrary, he’d been gravely offended indeed, though not by her father’s actions. Ducking her head so he would not see her blush, she replied, “Not at all. He mentioned he might call upon you tomorrow, if you are free to receive him.”

To her relief, there was no trace of suspicion in her father’s face or voice as he agreed heartily with this idea, turning his attention immediately to more intellectual pursuits. For her part, their exchange, short as it was, had been a trial to her already fraying composure, so Margaret begged leave to take refuge in her room for the evening, pleading a headache. It took a few more moments to reassure her father that her complaint was a mild one and she would recover shortly, and then she watched with relief as he returned to his sitting room to continue his work.

Once the door had closed behind him, she crept downstairs to collect Mr Thornton’s things, telling herself that she only wanted to ensure they were on-hand to return to him the next day. However, once returned to the privacy of her bedchamber, she clutched his coat to her chest as she lowered herself onto the bed.

She had made such a mess of things, and in the wake of her desperation and indignation, she could only be ashamed of the things she had said. She supposed she should probably be more ashamed of the things she had done. She had behaved shamelessly and undoubtedly only succeeded in demolishing any chance she might have had of resurrecting his good opinion of her character. But deep her in heart, she found she could not regret the passion they had shared.

Margaret might not be wise to the ways of the North, but she was not a stupid woman. Since moving to Milton, she had resigned herself to the likelihood that she would never marry for love – if she married at all. She had few romantic prospects among the population, and no money to attract a suitor even if eligible bachelors had been thick on the ground. Though she had naturally always longed for her own home and family, she had refused to give in to despondency in accepting her lot in life. She might never have a husband and children of her own, but with so many in need in Milton, her life would never be empty.

Better spinsterhood than to rush into an ill-advised match with no possibility that genuine affection might eventually blossom between both parties. And regardless of what Mr Thornton had said, she had little hope that they might form a genuine attachment within the confines of marriage.

Margaret knew she had lamentably opened herself up to gossip and ridicule by her behavior during the riot. Though her wits had temporarily been scattered, she had heard the malicious pleasure in Fanny’s voice when she speculated that Margaret had always had designs on her brother. Innocent though she may be in the ways of the world in many respects, she knew the rapidity with which gossip could flow from household to household, until its subject could find no respite from the censure of society.

On her very first day in Milton, she had become aware that her family was and would be the subject of gossip. Even of derision. She had found it hard enough to acclimate to life in this industrial town and had little care for the chatter people spread about her strange ways, having more or less resigned herself to her position as eternal outsider.

But while she could withstand the derision heaped upon her for her strange ways, she could not abide the speculation that she had designs on Mr Thornton, or that she had ever had intent to trap him into marriage. That others might think it of her was appalling; that he might come to believe it of her was unable to be borne.

Regardless of his protestations, it had been honor – not love – that had driven him to ask for her hand after the riot. After her brazen behavior, he could hardly do anything less. Though she had been unjust in her sketch of his character upon their first meeting, she had come to realize that John – that Mr Thornton, she reminded herself once again – was an honorable man. More than that, he was a good one, with both a kindness and a thoughtfulness that she once would have sworn was lacking in his character.

No, although she knew she should regret their time together, she found she could not, save in one respect. She should have anticipated the outcome. For the sake of honor and his own damnable pride, she should have known he would offer for her hand. He would see it as his duty to rescue her reputation.

She had been unkind – _unjust_ – to him in the aftermath of his second proposal, but her words had been spoken as much in self-preservation as in ire. Margaret might not have had the good sense to consider the inevitable outcome of their coupling, but she had no doubt of the end result of their ill-conceived union.

Thornton claimed he loved her, but he did not trust her. He did not believe in her. He had made that clear enough. Once honor and pride had been satisfied, all that would be left for him would be regret. Regret that he married a woman he considered faithless. In time, he would come to resent that he had not been free to marry a woman who remained blameless in his eyes and in his heart. Though he might not ascribe much faith to the gossip of servants _now_ , how long could he withstand their relentless speculation before he began to wonder if their words might not be true?

Margaret had been the first to come to him, after all. She had stolen a kiss from his lips in the front hall of her own house, where the two could be discovered at any time by her father or their servant. She had begged him to stay. She had seduced him in her own home, knowing her father or Dixon could return to catch them at any time.

He might not credit such thoughts now, but he likely would in time. Did the gossips have the right of it? Had her behavior been a ploy from the start, her intent all along to trap the most eligible Master of Marlborough Mills in the parson’s noose?

She could not bear the thought. She might not love him – she _swore_ she did not, for how could she love a man who did not trust her? – but she could not bear to watch whatever small measure of respect he still had for her diminish, first into regret, then into disgust, and eventually into hate.

She had been wounded and angry that he would once again propose out of a sense of duty toward her, but she had also been deeply, deeply afraid. Oh she had no thought that she might one day have cause to fear his person. Even in his reproof, his doubt, his _disgust_ for her, she had never been given cause to fear he might hurt her, and she thought well enough of him not to fear that his character would undergo such a marked change after their marriage. Even when his doubts and contempt for her grew, she felt certain that his disfavor would be displayed in cold courtesy rather than physical violence.

But cold courtesy from John would be terrible enough.

_“There is little enough I can offer you, but I can promise you that I will always treat you with honor. … You will have no cause to regret marrying me.”_

He saw her as an obligation, and if there was one thing Margaret did not wish to be, it was Mr Thornton’s _obligation_. She was not a cruel woman, but she had allowed herself to act in a cruel manner in an attempt to push him away.

She had not lied, she swore to herself once again. She did not love him. She did not. _She did not!_ She could not love him. Could not _allow_ herself to love him, when his opinion of her was so dismal. And she had little doubt that he would never allow himself to love in return, where he deemed the subject of his affections so unworthy.

Of course, it would be a simple enough matter to tell him the truth about Frederick, to reassure him that, which she had not been without fault, she was blameless of the charges he had laid at her door. But she could not. The truth might wipe away the object of his accusations, but it would not remove the cause. He did not believe in her. He did not know her. He did not trust her. He did not love her. There had once been a time when she had sworn she would never seek his love, but the loss of his good opinion had left her heart tender and bruised. She could not marry him. She _could not_.

Yet she had no other choice. She knew it as well as he had when he’d offered for her hand. Clutching the thick fabric of his coat closer to her stomach, she bowed over the precious bundle as much as her corset would allow. It was one more thing she had not had the wisdom to foresee before she’d behaved so wantonly. Even now, she might be with child. His child. She might be willing to withstand gossip for her own sake, but she could not do that to an innocent babe.

She would marry him. And she prayed he would not come to hate her for it.


	5. Chapter 5

Never had the hours moved so slowly as they did that evening, the passage of time marked only by the steady beat of Margaret’s heart. In the morning, Mr Thornton would come to her in anticipation of her response. In the morning, she would agree to marry him. Due to the confluence of honor and respectability, her life would be irrevocably changed, with no hope, even, for a long engagement in order to grow accustomed to the idea. The possibility of a child forced Mr Thornton’s hand as much as her own, and they would have to marry as soon as was practical, but not so quickly as to invite further comment and speculation.

She would leave her father’s house. She would become John’s wife – his property in the eyes of the law, although her nature rebelled against the notion of belonging to anyone other than herself – with no recourse to either of them, should regret ever become the natural conclusion to their marriage.

 _Miss Margaret Hale. Mrs John Thornton. Mrs Thornton. Margaret Thornton._ Over and over, she played her future moniker in her mind, attempting to grow accustomed to the weight and feel of it. _Margaret Thornton. Margaret Thornton. Margaret Thornton._

What an unlikely pairing. What an odd collection of syllables. His name had long since inspired the comfort of familiarity, the warmth that came at the reminder of a dear – if complicated – friendship. The full force of emotion evoked by the joining of their names together was too complex for her to interpret and too frightening for her to consider for long.

 _Mrs John Thornton. Mrs Thornton. Margaret Thornton._ It would not happen immediately, but this would soon be the name she would carry for the rest of her life. _Mrs John Thornton. I am soon to be Mrs John Thornton. Margaret Thornton. Please, God, do not let him come to hate me for it._

And so her thoughts occupied the hours as sleep eluded her, until the grey light of dawn breaking through her bedroom window compelled her to arise and prepare for the day. _Mrs John Thornton_ , she reiterated one final time as she gazed at her reflection in grave contemplation. Her features were pale and drawn, the deep shadows under her eyes testament to her sleepless night, but she otherwise appeared respectable enough. _Today is the day I agree to become John’s wife._

It was futile to expect that Mr Thornton would arrive late to their engagement, or that he would shirk his duty entirely, but she allowed herself to entertain such hope nevertheless as she ate her meager breakfast in resigned silence. Her father failed to notice her preoccupation, engrossed as he was in his own ecclesiastical ruminations. For her part, Dixon appeared to suspect that something was amiss, but she seemed content to keep her own counsel, demonstrating an uncharacteristic lack of both curiosity and opinion about Margaret’s lowered spirits.

Once the breakfast things were put away, Margaret attempted to lose herself in the day’s chores, though her mind remained fixated on the upcoming visit. In her distraction, she accomplished several tasks, but none of them well, until Dixon shooed her out of her precious kitchen and directed her to take her inattention elsewhere. So she returned to her room to gather Mr Thornton’s things and await his arrival.

It came all too soon, his rap upon the front door traveling to her from the ground below, and she attempted to rise to her feet only to find them too weak to support her. Brushing her palms along the heavy fabric of her skirt, she tried again, this time with greater success. Clutching his things in her arms, she swept out the door and down the stairs, this time without pausing to check her reflection in the glass. She knew she was unlikely to look her best at the present moment, but her future husband would have to take her as she was, regardless.

Dixon had showed John into the drawing room, to await her company. Fixing a smile upon her face, she tried to be brave as she prepared to engage in the interview that would change her life, but then she saw John, Mr Thornton, _her future husband_ standing by the window, his back to the room. At the sight of him, she felt her knees give way, and she had to grab for the threshold to avoid falling upon the floor and making a fool of herself.

He turned at the sound. “Miss Hale,” he greeted her, giving her nothing to reproach in either his expression or his voice.

“Mr Thornton,” she responded in return, gratified when her voice sounded more confident than she felt. After a momentary hesitation, she turned to close the door, regretting the impulse that had compelled her to leave his abandoned items on the table in the entryway, for him to retrieve before his exit. If she still carried them, it would give her hands something to do, other than to tremble and be useless. Hiding them in her skirts, she stepped further into the room, her gaze falling – as it so often seemed to do as of late – to his chest.

“You’ve thought about my offer?” he asked with a forthrightness that she had often admired in the past but which caused her a measure of dismay now. If she’d had her way, they might have occupied the next several minutes in idle chatter, avoiding the subject that remained unspoken between them, although such avoidance could only be temporary in nature. But perhaps it was for the best that they address the topic right away, affixing her future with a sense of permanence in her own mind.

“I have,” she agreed, even as her mind went blank. Were there words that were customary to offer in such a situation as the agreement to a proposal issued in honorable obligation? Surely there were, but she could not for the life of her imagine what they might be. If only she had spent some time mulling over the words of her acceptance, rather than merely upon its outcome! “I – I thank you for your offer and would be—” she hesitated, searching for the proper word. She could not claim in good conscience to be _pleased_ (at least under the current circumstances), but neither did _honored_ seem an appropriate term, as it had been her own dishonorable behavior that had led to her present predicament.

She tried again. “I am grateful for your kindness, and I accept your offer.” As the words left her mouth, her throat stung with the bitterness of unshed tears. With such tepid words, she had accepted his proposal and changed the course of her life! Were their lives together truly to begin on a note of such indifference?

“I don’t want your _gratitude_ ,” he snapped, sounding cold and impatient, seemingly as disgusted by her reply as she found herself to be, and she winced.

He hadn’t moved, and so she gave into the impulse to step toward him and take his hand in hers. It had once been inconceivable that she might take any man’s hand in such a manner, her aversion causing great offense early in their acquaintance. She had yet to grow entirely accustomed to the ways of the North, each time having to overcome her own natural aversion to shaking any man’s hand but his. Though they shook hands rarely, John’s touch was hardly unfamiliar to her now.

Marveling in the weight and the strength of his palm, she trembled as she lifted it to press her cheek against the back of his hand. “No,” she breathed in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry. I’m not – I’ve never learned how to accept – to accept an offer such as – such as yours.”

“I’ve never learned to make such an offer. At least, I’ve never learned how to do it well,” he replied in return, his voice low and soft. It swept around her like a caress, making her long to lean into him. He turned his hand in hers, cupping her cheek in his palm. His thumb brushed along her lips, and she closed her eyes with a sigh.

“John, I—” she began, lifting her gaze to his face, where the blue of his eyes stole both her breath and her reason. Before she could continue, a sound carried through the closed door.

“Is John here? Margaret said he would call on me today—” Her father’s voice trailed off, out of hearing, but that brief reminder was sufficient to cause her to drop his hand and step away.

“My father is waiting for you,” she breathed, pulling out of his reach. Turning toward the window, she waited until she heard him leave, and then she whispered into the silence, “Margaret Thornton. Mrs John Thornton…”

* * *

There had once been a time – before age, disappointment, and regret had instilled within her breast a degree of measured practicality, and before the upheaval of her entire life to an unfamiliar town in the North – that Margaret had entertained more romantic sensibilities than she indulged today. She had once considered her future married life with eager anticipation, although her life’s partner was yet unknown. In her more romantic musings, she had wondered if her eventual engagement would have such a profound impact upon her person, her heart, and her future that it would slowly overtake the world around her, like ripples in a pond. In her very most romantic contemplations, she imagined that an engagement would impress upon her with such importance that reality itself would be fundamentally altered, and all would know at a glance of her good fortune and supreme confidence in her future contentment.

As it turned out, her engagement to John did not have such an immediate cataclysmic impact upon her life. Her father had received the news of her engagement to his friend with a combination of joy at her good fortune in capturing the devotion of such a man and astonishment that they two were anything more than indifferent acquaintances. He had never anticipated a forming attachment on either side, convinced as he was by her initial dislike of the rugged industrialist. For a brief moment, Margaret had hoped that Dixon might be on her side in sharing reservations about her future marriage, but even she abandoned Margaret to her misgivings, having been moved by Mr Thornton’s kindness towards her mistress during her final decline.

So Margaret bore her apprehension in silence as she accepted congratulations both reticent (most notably from Nicholas, who still carried an intense distrust of the Master of Marlborough Mill and – soon enough – of her life) and heartfelt. She hid her misgivings as she wrote to her family to inform them of the news, feigning an excitement she didn’t feel to Frederick, in particular, lest he worry over her in her present course.

She didn’t dare write the truth of her feelings even to her dear Edith, who graced her missive with a quick reply.

_My darling Margaret,_

_I was so pleased to receive your most recent letter, but imagine my astonishment to read of your engagement! Although I am certain I will not be the first, allow me to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials. I hope you will not be too cross with me when I confess that I had begun to wonder if you might have formed an attachment to your Mr Thornton. Your attitude toward him had undergone such a marked changed in recent letters, although I had no thought that your heart might be so engaged! I know you’ll think it very silly of me, but I had hoped that you might reconsider Henry’s suit, as I already love you quite as a sister. But, no. I suppose it was not to be. No matter. You had written before of Mr Thornton’s severity and harshness, but if you have formed an attachment to him, he must be the most worthy of gentlemen. I can only hope that – if you haven’t yet! – you may one day develop genuine affection for him, as I have for my own dear Captain._

_As much as I hope for your future happiness, I was surprised to learn that your wedding would be so soon! Could you not convince your beau to give you a little more time? Surely his regard for you would allow you sufficient time to travel to London to purchase your trousseau. Sadly, I fear it would be impossible for us to travel to Milton to attend your wedding as is. The weather has grown colder, and poor Sholto has been out of sorts…_

Margaret folded the letter and put it aside, letting her gaze drift out the window as she lost herself in her thoughts. Reconsider Henry’s suit? She’d never dreamed her cousin entertained such hopes, or she would have gently disabused her of such a notion. He was a good man, but she had known from their first meeting that they would never be more than friends. She could only pray that Henry was as ignorant of Edith’s intentions as she had been, and that her defection would not cause him undue pain.

The thought of Henry set aside, she turned her attention to the more pressing (and, perhaps, distressing) part of her cousin’s missive: her speculation that Margaret had developed real feelings for Mr Thornton. What was it in Margaret’s letters that had given rise to such an idea? Was she to be plagued by suspicion that she had secret designs to trap him into marriage as far away as London?

With a huff of dismay, Margaret rose to her feet and walked briskly to the hall to gather her things. The hour was growing late, and she had agreed to meet Mrs Thornton to discuss plans for the wedding breakfast. Whatever she had once imagined her life to be upon her engagement, the reality was less like a sudden, cataclysmic shift and more like a boulder rolling down a hill – moving slowly, at first, but gradually gaining in steam until it carried on entirely out of her control. Plans were made, dresses discussed, menus debated. Margaret approached each decision with feigned enthusiasm, pretending more interest in the details than she truly felt, more for her father’s sake than for the sake of anyone in the Thornton family. She had no illusions regarding _their_ eagerness for the match, though both ladies treated her politely enough – or, rather, as politely as they were ever likely to do.

As was her nature, Mrs Thornton tackled each task like a general amassing her troops, relentlessly attending to each detail until it was resolved to her satisfaction, if not to Margaret’s preference. She remained polite, if distant, although Margaret could not help but recognize that the Thornton matriarch was disappointed in her son’s choice of bride, considering it (perhaps rightly) a slight against her family and her son that Margaret did not more keenly feel the honor that was being bestowed upon her.

Less concerned with familial honor, Fanny approached the task of wedding planning with greater enthusiasm, although she also could not entirely hide her disappointment in the recipient of her attentions. Her tongue was less guarded than the other members of her family, so she let slip more than once that she had hoped a certain Miss Latimer would stand in Margaret’s place – but, no, it was not to be, and she would somehow forebear. Margaret tried not to let these barbs shake her composure, as she told herself the pain they left in their wake was caused by injury to her pride and not her heart.

And so it was that the three women danced around the subject of the engagement and the animosity that lingered between them, until the afternoon that Margaret received Edith’s letter. Distracted by the accusation of genuine attachment for the man she assured herself had touched her body but not her heart, she was inattentive to his mother’s conversation until even the Dragon’s patience was at an end.

Tossing the proposed guest list onto the table between them, Mrs Thornton made a sound of disgust as she gazed upon her future daughter with all the hauteur that was hers to command. “I promised my son I would be polite, but I must speak my mind,” she declared, her tone more than her words catching Margaret’s attention, pulling her mind away from her more distressing ruminations.

With the same blunt honesty that had marked all of their interactions to date, Mrs Thornton said, “I’ve won’t pretend to have ever liked you.” Though the two women had never spoken on that particular topic, Margaret couldn’t pretend to be surprised by the admission. Nor could she feign astonishment when Mrs Thornton continued, “I certainly don’t think you’re good enough for my son. But if you think you can make him happy, that’s good enough for me.”

It was not much of a capitulation, but it was more than Margaret had ever expected to receive, so she was contemplating how to gracefully respond when she realized that the older woman was waging some form of silent internal battle. It seemed prudent to hold her tongue until she learned which inner demon would be the victor, and she was unsurprised when her patience was rewarded with insult.

“I only ask that you consider your feelings. If you truly love this other man of yours, if you think you might one day wish that you had married him instead…as a mother, I ask that you be honest with John and release him from this engagement. He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve a lifetime of misery.”

Margaret’s first inclination was to rail against this affront, to demand apology for yet another slight against her character. However, she struggled to bite back her initial response, reminding herself that she would soon marry into this family – a circumstance that would require a period of adjustment for all parties involved. In as civil a tone as she could manage, she replied, “I understand your position, although I am cannot think why I should owe you an explanation for why I agreed to marry your son. As for the man in question, rest assured that I need no additional time to examine my feelings for him. I do love him – very much – but I will _never_ come to regret him, at least not in the manner you imply.”

Her answer failed to placate the Dragon; far from it, in fact. Rearing back, Mrs Thornton snapped, “You _are_ an arrogant, unfeeling woman, with no thought to—”

“Mother.”

Both woman jumped at the sound of the single word, no matter that it was softly spoken, and Margaret turned to find her fiancé in the doorway, staring at the pair of them. She had understood that responsibilities at work were keeping him increasingly occupied, making it unlikely that she would see him at all that day. Her heart leapt at the sight, even as she recoiled slightly from the anger in his eyes.

For all his ire, he spoke politely to his mother as he continued in mild rebuke, “You promised that you would treat Miss Hale with respect.”

Mrs Thornton raised her chin, ready to defend herself and her actions, but Margaret didn’t give her the chance. Rising to her feet, she replied hurriedly, “She hasn’t offended me. She’s only spoken her mind, which is a sign of respect in itself, and I’m afraid I’ve spoken to her far more harshly in the past. I appreciate her honesty, as it allows us to come to terms with each other without risk of misunderstanding.”

She was babbling, speaking for too quickly for the situation as she felt mortification scorch her cheeks. Had he heard her admission that she loved Frederick but would never marry him? The rage banked behind his eyes gave nothing away, whether it arose solely from his mother’s uncharitable words or if a portion of his anger was caused by her own foolish tongue.

Since their engagement, Margaret had treated Mr Thornton with trepidation – not for the sake of his person but in recognition that he was the reason why her life would soon irrevocably change. In her haste to smooth over the lingering tension, however, she acted without thinking, approaching him quickly to rest a soothing hand upon his arm.

The move, insignificant as it was to her own mind, captured his attention, and she watched as he bowed his head to stare at the hand in question. Margaret found her gaze following his own, and she marveled at the paleness of her skin against the harsh black of his frock coat. Her hand trembled under his regard, but she did not pull it away, and she saw that the anger had ebbed from behind his eyes when he lifted his gaze once more to hers.

Ever since his second proposal, Margaret had found it difficult to meet his gaze as unflinchingly as she had once done. Too overwhelmed by her own shame, her uncertainty, the fear of what he might see in her face as much as she was confused about what she longed to see in his, it had been easier to keep her face averted, her eyes downcast. In her aversion, she had forgotten how hypnotizing his eyes could be, how they captured her and refused to let her go. Staring into them now, she felt her breath catch and hold as he overwhelmed her with the desire to learn more about the man she was to marry. To understand the emotion flickering behind the eyes that captivated her so. To fully comprehend the inner workings of his mind and of his heart.

Behind her, Mrs Thornton answered her son’s charge, but she might not have spoken for all either of them seemed to mark her words. Margaret heard nothing but the steady rise and fall of his breathing, in marked contrast to her own irregular breath. She told herself she should pull away from him, but she did not as she said in a low voice, for only his ears to hear, “I didn’t think I would see you today.”

Something flickered behind his eyes, though what emotion it was, she couldn’t say. “There’s much to do at the mill,” he replied. Then, after a moment, he asked, “Did you wish to see me? I’d have come sooner, if I’d known.”

“Yes,” answered unthinkingly. Then, realizing the answer betrayed an eagerness for his company that was at best improper and at worst misleading, she tried again. “No. I – the plans for our wedding – there’s so much to do.” The list of decisions that still required her attention seemed insurmountable, never mind that theirs would not be as grand an affair as Fanny’s wedding had been. Although John had told her to make such plans as would make her happy, without the presence of her extended family and in light of both the need for expediency and the lack of sentiment that had led to their engagement, she had opted for a simpler affair.

His hand covered her own, trapping it against his arm when she might have realized it had lingered there for too long and pulled it away. “I have some time before I must return to the mill. Will you spend the afternoon with me?”

The last time they had spent such time together had landed them in their current situation, and the peevish part of her that railed against their forced engagement whispered that she should refuse him. He would have the authority to lay claim to her attention soon enough. But she found she could not resist him when he looked at her as he did now.

To her surprise every bit as much as it was to his, she found herself nodding in reply. “Yes.” An inexplicable swell of happiness swelled within her breast, causing her to smile up at him in unfeigned joy. Before she could question the cause for her improved spirits, she laughed and gave herself over to the urge to tease him lightly. “But only if you promise that we will speak of anything other than wedding plans.”

John’s face, handsome even in severity, was truly transformed by his smile, slight as it was. “I can deny you nothing,” he responded in kind. “Certainly not a request as simple as that.” Leading her into the hall, he paused long enough to assist her with her outerwear, and then he threw open the door and led her outside.

It would be several minutes before Margaret realized she had left without wishing Mrs. Thornton goodbye.


	6. Chapter 6

The air was cold, a slight spattering of snow drifting from the dreary gray sky, but John hardly noticed as he escorted Margaret across the yard in companionable silence. He strove to find a topic of conversation she might find sufficiently diverting, but his concerns about the state of Marlborough Mills plucked at his consciousness and gave him no measure of peace. She seemed to be content to leave him to his ruminations, and he appreciated her disinclination to rush into mindless prattle just to fill the silence.

As it happened, there was one topic that had lately begun preying upon his mind, and so he decided to address it in his usual forthright manner. “I’ve met with your friend, Mr Higgins,” he remarked, offering her his arm. He was gratified when she accepted it, and though he doubted she took particular note of it, his attention was diverted by the soft pressure of her hand. Would she always have such an effect upon him, to cast his orderly thoughts into disarray by a simple touch?

As he had hoped, her joyful expectation at this revelation was reflected in her eyes, which were brightened by the smile she turned his way. It made him almost regret the churlishness with which he had initially greeted her friend, embittered by the role the millworker had played in instigating the strike that had exacerbated Marlborough Mills’ precarious financial state.

His temper had gotten the better of him during their first interview, but he had subsequently calmed and asked after the man’s story, discovering that he had spoken the truth when he confessed he had taken in a dead man’s six children. Impressed by his reputation for honesty and hard work (and, if he was being honest, moved by his story), John had reconsidered his position and offered Higgins a position. Had he known that the other man had come to him on the advice of Miss Hale, he might have conquered his foul temper sooner – and he’d been left to wonder if such a circumstance had presented as a possibility in her own mind.

Attempting to keep his tone light and unaccusatory, he asked, “Did you encourage him to meet with me because you thought I would be swayed by your friendship?”

She looked surprised and replied in an arch tone, “Of course not. I would never presume to imagine that you cared so much for my opinion.”

“On the contrary. Your opinion matters to me a great deal.” Little did she know that her opinion was dearer to her than any other. How could she not know the effect she had on him? “But I do not have the luxury of considering sentiment in matters of business.”

A line of irritation marred her brow. “So you turned him away, then?”

“I did at first, but I checked after him and was assured he’s a hard worker, so I gave him a position. And he’ll keep it, so long as he keeps to his time and doesn’t let that brain of his get him into trouble.” She ducked her head, hiding her face beneath the brim of her hat as he continued, “I wanted you to understand that I have him a position based on his merit, not as a favor to you or as a consequence of our engagement.”

The hand on his arm stiffened, but she didn’t draw away. Her anger was evident in her voice, however, as she asked, “Were you afraid I would misunderstand and lord it over you, if I thought you had sought my favor?”

“No.” Drawing to a halt, he turned to look at her, waiting until her face was no longer obscured or turned away to continue. “I was afraid you would misunderstand and think you owed me your gratitude. I’m not looking for your thanks, Miss Hale. Nor do I want you to fear that any future disagreement between us will result in a retraction of my offer.”

To his relief, her pique faded as quickly as it had arisen, as she laughed lightly. “You’re confident we’ll have cause to disagree over the course of our marriage?” she asked teasingly.

Her smile begged an answering one from him in return as he replied, “I’m not often a betting man, but I’d be willing to bet on that.” She laughed again, the sound warming his heart in defiance of the winter weather.

The mood between them grew companionable once more as they continued on their way. They’d had no set purpose when they set off from his house, traveling generally in the direction of the shops. Although he was loathe to shatter this renewed sense of peace, he had still not broached the subject that had plagued his thoughts from the moment Higgins had confessed to the true architect of their interview. Taking the chance he would once again incur her wrath, he remarked mildly, “However, I was surprised that you encouraged him to meet with me. I know you think me too hard on my workers, determined to drive them into the ground.”

She shot him a look out of the corner of her eye but refused to rise to his provocation. “It is astonishing to me that we will be married soon and you still have so little understanding of my mind.”

John took a moment to carefully guide Margaret around a throng of people exiting a shop before he murmured, “I’d like to know your mind, if you’d let me. And your heart.”

“I keep neither hidden from you, though I suspect I think better of you than you think of me at present,” she acknowledged, lingering by a shop window to gaze inside at its wares. After a moment, she turned to him. “Tell me, Mr Thornton. I know I’m still unfamiliar to the ways of the North, but is it customary for grooms of Milton to present their brides with a gift?”

“I – yes,” he agreed, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. He had already begun to think on the matter of her wedding present, in fact, but he had not yet come to a decision on the matter.

“Then if you will indulge me, I have a request for my gift.” Undeterred by his slight frown, she continued, “We have both misunderstood and have thought the worst of each other. I ask that we put our misconceptions in the past and move forward together. You once had faith in me, in my character, I think. I wish you’d do so again.”

If only what she asked were so easy to give as a length of ribbon purchased in a shop, John would do so gladly. Glancing around to ensure they weren’t observed, he lowered his voice to prevent being overheard. “You want me to pretend I don’t know you love another? ‘Very much,’ I believe you said.” He had not intended to eavesdrop on her conversation with his mother earlier, but he had heard her admission as he’d entered the house, nevertheless.

She winced, and a shadow flickered across her face. “I do love him,” she admitted in a voice as soft as his own, “but I’m asking you to trust me when I say it’s not in the way you think.”

“Mar—Mis Hale, I’m a reasonable man. If you would explain the situation to me, I would—”

“If I explained the situation to you, there would be no need for faith.” Sliding her hand down his arm, she let her fingers linger of his – a gentle, pleading caress – before dropping her hand to her side. “If you have no faith in me, how could you ever trust me? Whatever disagreements we’ve had in the past, whatever circumstances have brought us to this moment, I do hope we can find contentment in our marriage. But I don’t think that will ever be possible, if you don’t trust me. If we don’t trust each other.” Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added, “Please, John.”

He didn’t know how to reply. How could trust be recovered, once it had been lost? But he could deny her nothing – certainly not when she looked at him as she was now – and so he gave her a short nod. “If it’s in my power to give you, it’s yours,” he agreed, the two turning their attention to more cheerful topics as they continued on their way.

* * *

Margaret was surprised to discover how much she genuinely enjoyed Mr Thornton’s company throughout the remainder of the afternoon. Over the course of their acquaintance, their relationship had been marked by the tumult of many conflicting emotions. It was almost strange to find now that his company brought her such measure of peace. Perhaps the shift in her attitude warranted further self-reflection, but she was wary of upsetting the temporary truce into which they had tacitly entered.

At the conclusion of their afternoon together, he offered to escort her home, but she asked him to return her to the mill, instead. She had realized her rudeness only belatedly and wished to make amends to Mrs Thornton, who was only acting in what she perceived to be the best interests of a child she adored. Margaret might be able to fault her for her assumptions and her opinions, but she could not fault the older woman for her devotion, or for being so protective of her only son.

Back in the mill yard, however, she found herself reluctant to return to the task of planning her wedding, and so she lingered by his side, accompanying him back to his office. Though he could have sent her away, he did not, seemingly longing for her company as much as she desired his.

Once the door was closed behind her, however, she found herself at loose ends, uncertain how to behave in his company. It was not lost upon her that she had behaved most improperly on her last visit to his office.

To her relief, he was not similarly overwhelmed by recollections of the past, although his expression appeared distracted as he stepped behind his desk. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he began, choosing his words carefully. Even so, he was momentarily stymied in his attempts to continue. “Ah…how have you found your time in Milton so far?”

“My time in Milton?” she repeated, at a loss as to his meaning. If he could provide her any insight into his thoughts, it wasn’t forthcoming, so she ventured, “It has been difficult, at times, but I think I’m learning Milton’s ways. I believe – or, rather, I hope – I give less offense than I once did.”

“But what about the place?” he pressed. “Is there nowhere in Milton that you look upon in fondness? Nowhere that brings you joy?”

The more he spoke, the less she was able to comprehend his purpose. “I suppose…I enjoy my daily walks, though they’re only through the graveyard on the hill. I miss the beauty of the landscape in Helstone.”

By the twisting of his mouth, she suspected he was dissatisfied by her answer. “No, there is not much beauty to be found here,” he agreed in an abstracted tone.

“Perhaps if I understood why you’re asking, I could think of a more appropriate answer,” she suggested.

Rather than respond to her request, he pressed, “I wonder if there is anything – or, rather, any place – that has become dear to you in Milton? Is there nothing you would miss if you were to leave?”

 _You_. The thought came so suddenly to mind that it left her confused and off-balance, and she turned away from him so he wouldn’t see her conflicted feelings. Was that really true? Since arriving in Milton, she had held fast to the conviction that there was little to tie her to this town. If she was forced to leave its gray, smoky landscape behind as abruptly as she’d arrived, she believed that there was little she’d need to excise from her heart. She would mourn the absence of her friends Nicholas and Mary, as she still mourned the loss of their beloved Bessie. She would miss them, she would write to them, but they alone did not have sufficient hold on her heart to either convince her to stay or to draw her back to this wretched place.

Surely John could hold no greater sway over her heart than her dearest friends could lay claim to. Closing her eyes, she attempted to gather her thoughts into some form of order. No, it wasn’t that Mr Thornton had such a great claim on her affections, although he certainly had lay claim to her hand. It was simply that Mr Thornton and Milton were so inextricably tied together in her mind that it was impossible to think of one without the other. Everything that could be said about this town – good and bad – was personified in him. Its coarse and terrible harshness. Its strength and awful beauty. Pride and ambition, warring with vulnerability and compassion.

Mr Thornton _was_ Milton to her, for good or for ill. It wasn’t just her life that had undergone a dramatic change since her relocation to this Northern industrial town, it was her person, and he could claim as much credit for that alteration as the poverty and want she witnessed every day.

Margaret raised a trembling hand to brush a lock of hair off her face, more to have a momentary distraction from her thoughts than from a need to put any unkemptness to rights. “I suppose,” she ventured in an uneven tone, once again looking upon the mill yard with sightless eyes, “it would be here.” She could hardly confess to the direction in which her thoughts had turned, and claiming the mill seemed as good a deflection as any.

In fact, there was perhaps some underlying truth to her words. Though the memory of the riot was hardly a peaceful or welcome one, she believed her words had helped calm the situation, if only briefly. She had momentarily soothe the rioters’ tempers and, in doing so, had helped ensure the safety of the Irish workers locked in the mill. Since first arriving in Milton, she had tried to find ways to make herself useful, but that had been the first day that she’d truly felt of use.

“The mill?” he asked, astonishment evident in his voice. She turned to face him once more and felt her heart begin to pound at the warmth of his gaze. “Do you mean it?”

“Well, so much has happened here,” she conceded. “Both bad and – and good.” This is where the two of them had met, after all, albeit in less than auspicious circumstances. Where she had first argued with him. It had been here at the mill that she had first seen Bessie, and their friendship was one she would treasure all her life. It was in his dealings with his workers that she had first begun to see Mr Thornton’s integrity. His honesty. His honor. And then, after a time, even his compassion for those under his care.

The mill had also been where she and John had shared their first, impetuous kiss, but if she dwelled too long on that memory, she thought she might die of mortification. Or, more perilously, of desire.

She had said enough. She should hold her tongue, lest her somehow discern the direction of her thoughts and ask questions of her that she was incapable of answering. He was still gazing at her with an enigmatic expression, and she found herself adding lamely before her voice trailed off into embarrassed silence, “It’s where I first met Bessie. I miss her.”

In response to her words, his eyes grew cold, his expression aloof once more, chilling her more completely than the merciless winter wind when it blew in from the North. “I see,” he replied in clipped tones, stepping away. As though they were tied by an invisible thread, she followed after him.

“Wait!” she blurted, staying his retreat. In her attempts to hide her thoughts from his view, she had caused offense and, she feared, had hurt him. “Please, do not misunderstand. Your friendship is very important to me.”

“My friendship.” He spoke the words more to himself than to her, as though mulling them over. As she watched, the storm that had overcome him seemed to fade away, although his emotions were obscured as he said, “Friends. Is that what we’ve been to each other?”

“I’d like to think so,” she agreed, though her mouth grew suddenly dry as he drew near. Reaching for her, he cupped the nape of her neck in his palm, his fingers tickling the bare, soft skin he found there as he drew her in for a kiss. It was the first embrace they had shared since her humiliating display of impropriety in her father’s sitting room.

Margaret had intentionally avoided any situation where the two might spend time alone in private, in order to resist temptation. Now that it had presented itself, however, she found herself its willing accomplice, gripping the front of his coat as she leaned in to his embrace.

Breaking off the kiss, John’s face remained inches from hers as he whispered, “My sweet Margaret, it seems we’re always talking at cross-purposes.”

She indulged in a cheeky grin in defiance of the serious subject as she replied, “It is worrisome that the only time we don’t seem to argue is when our mouths are otherwise occupied.”

His eyes widened at her unexpected boldness, but her efforts were rewarded when she heard his soft chuckle. “I suppose it’s one way to win an argument.”

“You’ll have to bear it in mind. It might be the only way you ever have an advantage over me,” she teased him, eliciting a laugh. It hadn’t taken her long in Milton to realize that laughter from the Master of Marlborough Mills was a rare sound, indeed. She treasured each occasion on which she’d managed to provoke him to such lightness of spirit.

His good humor remained as he pressed one more kiss against her lips. “Will we never come to understand each other?”

Margaret sighed in contentment, her head falling against this shoulder as she mused, “I suppose we have our entire lives together in which to try.”

She felt his breath against her cheek as he murmured, “I was asking because there’s something I’ve been meaning to give you. I hoped to find a more romantic spot for it than this, but—” His voice trailed off as she drew back and gasped when she saw him pull a ring out of his pocket. As unconventional as their engagement had been, she had never thought to expect a ring to mark the occasion.

Like the man who offered it, the ring was simple but beautiful. A table cut sapphire flanked by small pearls had been set into a delicate gold band. “I don’t have any family heirlooms to pass on, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “Those were…lost, long ago.” She understood immediately. Undoubtedly, he had been forced to sell them to pay for his family’s care and the debts his father had left behind following his suicide. “If the ring isn’t to your liking, I could have it reset into something more—”

“No,” she reassured him, extending her hand in silent invitation so that he could slide it on her finger. Its weight was unfamiliar, but the presence of it was a reminder of the way her life would soon change. The way it had already changed. It gave a strange sense of permanence to their engagement which was both daunting and oddly reassuring.

It would have perhaps been a logical moment for the two to exchange another kiss, but Margaret stayed where she was, and Mr Thornton made no move to bridge the gap between them. They had already shared one illicit embrace that day, and experience (in this very room, no less) indicated just how dangerous giving into temptation too many times could be.

Lost in her thoughts, she remarked, “It’s perfect. It reminds me of you. Of the day we met.” At his puzzled expression, she explained, “The sapphire matches your eyes, and the pearls remind me of the cotton in the air the first time I saw you. It was beautiful. Like snow.”

“I wouldn’t have thought the cotton would have been what drew your attention,” he admitted in a wry tone. But, of course, he undoubtedly believed their angry encounter was the first time she’d seen him. He didn’t yet know the truth.

“It wasn’t, during the, ah, incident. But first saw you a little before then, when you were looking over the workroom. I thought you looked very—” Handsome. She had thought him the most handsome man she had ever seen. “— _forbidding._ ”

“An opinion that could hardly have been contradicted by our initial meeting,” he acknowledged. “There have been times I’ve wished I could go back to that day. Things might have been easier for us if I’d made a better first impression.”

She’d wondered something similar before, just as she’d wished she could go back in time and prevent their ill-fated meeting at the railroad station. But there was no benefit to brooding upon things that neither of them could change. “There’s no point in dwelling upon the past. We must look to the future.”

The ring on her finger glinted in the sunlight, an omnipresent reminder that the future they were destined to share together, lest she ever be tempted to forget.

* * *

Following that pleasant afternoon spent in Mr Thornton’s company, Margaret did not see him again for several days. She continued to work with his mother to finalize wedding plans, neither woman broaching the subject of their former disagreement. Then one evening, with the wedding less than a fortnight away, Margaret received confirmation she had awaited with equal measures of anticipation and dread.

She was not with child.

How would Mr Thornton respond to this revelation? She could not in good conscience keep it from him, not when his proposal had stemmed from a sense of honor that, it turned out, was misplaced. Uncertain how her news would be received, she put off telling him for as long as she could, but finally, she came to terms with the knowledge that she had no other choice.

It was with a heavy heart that she prepared to step out into the cold winter weather, to make the long walk to the mill to see him. Strictly speaking, meeting with him in private was still not entirely proper, although they were engaged. However, society was often willing to extend a measure of grace to couples who had already entered into a formal agreement, in a way they would never do for the unattached.

Her imagination played havoc with her nerves for the entire walk to his office, the Mr Thornton that existed in her own mind embracing every reaction from elation to scorn. It was unlikely that the Mr Thornton that existed in flesh and blood would indulge in either such extreme, but her mind insisted upon pondering each scenario in turn, nonetheless.

When she let herself into his office, however, she did not find him hard at work, as she’d anticipated. Instead, his head lay upon his desk, his hands stretched out on either side. Her discarded scarf was trapped under one hand, one end trailing over the edge of the desk to fall upon the floor. His coat had been discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had fallen asleep in his chair, exhausted by the relentless work that occupied both his days and – more and more frequently, of late – his nights.

Something in the general region of her heart twisted as she gazed upon his features, peaceful and soft in repose. She was accustomed to seeing his expression in studious contemplation, in the throws of anger, set in determination, when overwhelmed by desire. This was the first time she had seen him look so at peace.

She was tempted to leave him be, to back out of the room in silence to allow him a few more moments of rest. However, she also longed to touch him, this man who would soon be hers. Reason warred with desire, and desire won. Compelled to reach for him, she extended one hand to brush the hair off his forehead with a tenderness she didn’t dare show him in his waking hours.

His eyes fluttered open at her touch, his gaze hazy and unfocused and a smile softening the edges of his face as he sat up. “Margaret. Is this a dream?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she replied softly, her hand cupping his cheek.

He sighed, leaning into her embrace, the harsh scrape of his stubble scraping gently against her palm. She watched as he slowly came to awareness, shedding the last vestiges of sleep, as his expression grew more guarded and withdrawn.

Finally, he pulled away and stood. “Miss Hale, I apologize. I was indisposed when you came in.”

Embarrassed that he had caught her in a tender moment, she muttered a soft reassurance, stepping around the desk to give him more space as he pulled himself together. “I didn’t mean to come by unannounced. There’s something I – I need to tell you.” Sucking in as deep a breath as she could manage around her corset, she linked her fingers so that they might not forget their place again so soon and confessed, “I’m not with child.”

At her words, he grew so still, she might have thought he was a statue, except she could see that his mind was working furiously in the tumult of emotions behind his eyes. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

An awful silence full of unspoken things fell between them once again. Mr Thornton busied himself by continuing to set himself to rights. As he shrugged into his coat, he asked, “Will you cry off the engagement, then?”

In her previous flight of fancy, she had imagined several possible responses to her confession. That he might ask this single, simple question with an attitude of such quiet calm had not entered into her musings. “Do you want me to cry off?” she asked, astonished by the turn of their conversation.

He wouldn’t look at her, busying himself with straightening the cravat he’d hastily tied a few moments earlier. “I don’t want to force you into marriage against your will. I know crying off might damage your reputation, however, so I have no objection to letting it be known that you were the one to put an end to our agreement.”

It hadn’t gone unnoticed that he’d avoided her question, and she was unwilling to let him off the hook so easily. Crossing her arms over her chest, she demanded, “But is that what you _want_ , John?”

At the sound of his given name, his eyes darted to her face, and she was strangely relieved to see that his outward calm was not reflected in their blue depths. “My desires are unchanged,” he admitted in a hoarse voice. “But I’ll not blame you for crying off. You might be wise to do so. The truth is, the financial situation at the Mills is…precarious. We have enough to cover payroll. For now. I had hoped to keep our circumstances secret a while longer, in the hopes that I might find a solution that resolves our problems without anyone else ever discovering how bad things have gotten. However, if you wish to cry off, I’ll not contest that you have cause.”

Although her father had intimated his suspicions that the strike had put strain on the mills, Margaret was surprised to learn of the extent of the damage. “Are things really so bad?”

Mr Thornton sighed. “Although I wish I could promise you a secure future, I cannot. I can only swear that, if you still wish to be my wife, I will care for you to the best of my ability.”

Knowing what she did of his past, she didn’t doubt that capacity was great indeed. Still, she was not unconscious of the depths of his sacrifice in extending her such an offer. Mr Thornton was a private man, particularly in matters concerning his business. It would be a blow to his pride for his financial straits to be made public, for him to be viewed as incapable of caring for a wife to the extent that the shame of a broken engagement was her only reasonable recourse. But for her, he would do it. Without question.

“That won’t be necessary,” she reassured him, her voice thick with emotion but surprisingly firm, resting her hand over his so the gold of his engagement band glinted in the candlelight. “I have made you a promise. The circumstances that prompted our engagement might have changed, but my resolve hasn’t. I will marry you, gladly—” Gladly? Where had _that_ come from? Willingly, she would have understood, but _gladly_? “If you’ll still have me.”

She saw the muscles in his jaw flex as he swallowed heavily, reaching up to capture her hand in his own. He appeared to struggle to find the words, finally managing to say, “It would be my honor.”

Their emotional intimacy was more than Margaret had expected, and it was certainly more than she was prepared to deal with at present. She was finding it increasingly difficult to comprehend their situation. Although they hadn’t spoken of Frederick since their stolen afternoon together, she held no illusions that he had yet found it in his heart to forgive her, let alone to trust her. His lack of faith in her character was one reason she was firm in her conviction that his proposal had not stemmed from an excess of sentiment.

And yet…he treated her with uncommon tenderness, which often seemed so at odds with her brusque persona. That he desired her, there could be no question. However, his attitude toward her seemed to extend beyond physical longing – or even honorable obligation. Without his trust, she couldn’t possibly have his love, could she? Did she even want it? Her own feelings for him were still too conflicted for her to be certain, one way or another.

Pulling her hand from his, she stepped back, increasing the distance between them until she was nearly to the door. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t afford to allow herself to believe in the fiction that their present engagement was anything more than an act of honor, even if the fear that had prompted it had proved to be fruitless. “I should go. It isn’t proper for me to be alone with you like this,” she told him, although they had skirted the bounds of propriety before.

He didn’t protest. However, he drew her attention one more time, before she could escape. “Miss Hale.” When she turned to look at him over her shoulder, he said simply, “Thank you.”

Margaret frowned at him. “I don’t seek your gratitude any more than you wish for mine.”

He was unmoved by her argument. “Nevertheless, you have it.”

Her hand resting on the door, she regarded him in silence for a moment before saying, “We are in this together, Mr Thornton. For better or for worse. If we cannot depend upon each other for kindness and understanding, then who may we rely upon?”

Concerned that her tongue would further betray her innermost feelings if she remained, she slipped out the door and rushed out of the mill, eager to return to the safety of her father’s house. Knowing it wouldn’t be her home for much longer.

If her feelings for her fiancé were this complicated _now_ , how much more of a mess would they be in once he became her husband?


	7. Chapter 7

It snowed every day leading up to John and Margaret’s wedding, the weather unseasonably cold for the season, but the morning of the ceremony dawned crisp and bright, without a cloud in the sky. Soon enough, the air would fill with dirt and smoke, eclipsing the bright sunshine, but the morning sun promised to provide the perfect day for a wedding. John would have credited the favorable weather with bestowing good fortune upon his marriage if he were superstitiously inclined, but his mind had always tended along a more pragmatic path.

Though not normally given to fits of nervous anxiety, he found himself incapable of remaining still, his hands repeatedly worrying at the folds of his cravat as he paced the length of his drawing room. The hour was early, yet, and he supposed he should turn his attention to work in the hopes it might occupy his mind until the appointed hour. However, it seemed a waste of time to even make the attempt, when he knew his mind would fail to fixate on any particular task, no matter his intentions.

Once more, his hands raised to his cravat, giving it a slight tug. This simply wouldn’t do. If he couldn’t manage to get this newly developed habit under control, he would have to replace the wrinkled fabric before heading to the church.

“You’re looking fine.” His mother’s voice drew his attention to the doorway, where she lingered to watch him with her eyes filled with maternal affection. Embarrassed that she had caught him in his preoccupation, he turned to her with a smile, forcing himself to remain still as she approached to worry at his cravat in turn.

“Well?” he teased her gently. “Will I do?”

She scoffed. “Oh, you’ll do well enough,” she replied, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice entirely. “Any woman of sense would be proud to stand up with you today. Maybe she will too, if she doesn’t decide she’s too high and mighty to take you after all.”

He had no worry on that account. Whatever her failings, he was certain that she would hold to her promise. “She’ll be there,” he reassured her with quiet confidence.

“Perhaps,” his mother allowed as he stepped past her to gaze out the window. The smoke had already begun to fill the sky, blotting out the sun. “I know you care for her, and for your sake, I hope she makes you happy. I only wish you could have found someone who deserved you. Someone who could love you in return.”

Though he continued to stare out the window, he no longer took in the sights as he turned his mind to contemplation of her words. “I could never expect a woman like her to love a man like me. My love for her will have to be enough,” he remarked in a soft voice. Clutching his hands behind his back, he turned to face his mother once more. “Regardless of her feelings, I’m certain she won’t do anything to dishonor our marriage.”

She wasn’t so trusting. “If she had so much honor, she’d have had more care for her reputation, and there’d be no need for you to offer her the protection of your name.” For once in no the mood to argue, he forbore to mention that Margaret would never have agreed to marry him if her reputation had remained unsullied. She had made it quite clear when he’d proposed to her before that she was too far above the likes of him. She only agreed to marry him now because she’d fallen lower in her own estimation, if not in his.

Capturing his mother’s hand, he asked, “I know of your feelings toward her, but she’s going to be my wife. I wish for my sake that you’d make an effort with her.”

She sniffed. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me. I hate her, but if you’re right about her, she’ll be a Thornton soon enough. I don’t have to like her to take care of my own.”

He had no cause to doubt the truth of her words. Whatever his mother’s feelings, she was fiercely protective of her family and the Thornton name. Her pride would compel her to defend the new Mrs. Thornton as staunchly as she did either of her children.

Having said her peace, his mother squeezed his hand. “Now, everything’s ready for this evening. I’ve asked Jane to prepare Miss Hale’s room, and she’ll stay behind to make sure all her things are set up properly when they arrive this afternoon.” Her own things would be taken to Fanny’s, where she would stay for the next fortnight at least, allowing the newlyweds some privacy since they wouldn’t be able to take a wedding tour until the mill’s financial difficulties were resolved.

“Separate bedrooms, Mother? I didn’t think you’d hold by those Southern traditions,” he asked in good humor.

“A proper lady like her? We wouldn’t want to frighten her with our rough Northern ways. Now come. Sit with me for a while. I won’t have you to myself much longer.”

Indeed. In a few hours, Margaret would return to this house to assume her position as its new mistress. As _his wife_. He took position in the chair by his mother’s side, reaching up one more time to worry the fabric of his cravat.

* * *

Across town, Margaret had awoken determined to conduct her morning walk through the cemetery. The morning breeze carried a chill that brought stinging tears to her eyes as she stood on the hilltop and looked toward the mill that would soon be her home. It would be bittersweet, to leave the house she’d shared with her parents behind. She worried about her father growing lonely in her absence, as he’d never entirely recovered from her mother’s death. But that small, dingy house had seen such sorrow in so short a time, she would never look upon it as she did her beloved Helstone, with joyful nostalgia.

When she was younger, and still wrapped in the throes of romantic sensibility, Margaret had occasionally wondered how she might feel when this day dawned. She’d always assumed she’d walk beneath the trees whose bows were as familiar to her as the rosebushes that brought such color into her life to meet her beloved at the church where she’d attended sermons from the time she was a child. There had been no question of whether she’d look upon her wedding day with eager anticipation – merely whether she’d also be overcome by such genteel flutter of nerves that were befitting an innocent young lady.

Now confronted with the reality of her upcoming nuptials, she found that she could claim to be neither. She wasn’t eager to become a bride, for although she’d always imagined she’d marry for love, her attachment to Mr Thornton was not based on such sentiment. Nor was she overset by excessive anxiety, for the course of her future had been set from the moment the news of her engagement had been made public – if it hadn’t been put on its inalterable path sooner, during her shameless display in her father’s sitting room. Though she could not yet claim the title of “Mrs Thornton,” the upcoming ceremony had more of the essence of a formality, to sanctify their union in the eyes of God. There was no purpose in fretting over that which she couldn’t change, and so Margaret faced the day with a calm pragmatism that would have scandalized her younger self.

Her emotional equanimity lasted until she returned to her house to prepare for the day ahead. She had barely mounted the first stair when she heard her father’s voice call out to her. “Margaret? Is that you?” She smiled with warm affection at his beloved countenance as he looked over the railing at her. “Come up here, will you? There’s something I want to give you.”

Dutifully, she did as he asked, though her heart plummeted when she realized his destination. She’d avoided his sitting room as much as possible, ever since _that day_ with John, afraid that her father would somehow mystically divine her scandalous behavior the moment she stepped foot into the room. Unable to avoid doing so now, she purposefully turned her back to the table that had played such a pivotal role in that ill-conceived illicit union, desperate to avoid the memories the sight of it would evoke. Though she hoped to convey a composed demeanor, she was afraid her father would read her mortification and shame – prompted both by the act itself and her own acknowledgment that she did not regret their behavior that day as much as a proper lady should.

It had brought her to this moment, after all. It was about to make her John’s wife.

But wait. She stopped short at the thought. Surely that could be no cause for celebration. Hadn’t she already decided as much? So where had that errant thought come from now?

Pushing the inconvenience of that question aside, she asked, “Yes, Father?”

For a moment, she was afraid she might have been found out, as her father threw her a considering look, his expression grave. Her relief was immeasurable, therefore, when he said kindly, “It’s only natural to worry about the future ahead of you, but try not to fret. His ways may be different, but I’m confident he’ll give you no reason to regret becoming his wife.”

Before she could reassure him that she was of the same mind, his gaze grew distant as his thoughts drifted to the past, to happier times he had shared with his own bride. “Your mother and I…we married for love, as you know. I’m afraid I made her desperately unhappy, in those last few months of her life, but I hope that the years of joy that we shared were enough for her to never regret having married me.”

When Margaret would have protested, he cut her off. “No, it’s all right.” His eyes focusing on his daughter once more, he offered her a soft smile. “I never regretted her, at least. Whatever mistakes I’ve made in my life, loving her was never one of them.” He cleared his throat. “I worried, when I brought you to Milton, that I was taking you away from any chance that you might form a similar attachment of your own. I cannot tell you how pleased I’ve been to watch you and John fall in love, just as I once did with your mother.”

Abandoning all pretense of composure, Margaret felt her face flame bright red. “N-no, I – that is, we don’t – that’s—” she stammered, scrambling for the words that would disabuse her father of his foolish notion without divulging the secrets this room carried. Secrets he would never believe.

But perhaps she should allow him his delusion. It would only break his heart, causing him additional grief and concern on her behalf, to realize the truth of the matter. Let him think theirs would be a marriage of love, if it brought him peace.

“Mr Thornton and I would be blessed to claim half the love you and Mother shared,” she replied as honestly as she could manage.

The smile on her father’s face was worth the deceit. “Oh, I have something for you!” From his pocket, he pulled out a necklace. The delicate gold chain supported a pendant – a single pearl. It was simple and beautiful, and Margaret remembered her mother wearing it on occasion, in simpler, happier days. “I gave this to your mother at our wedding. It isn’t much, but…I think she’d want you to have it.”

Overcome by emotion, Margaret nodded and leaned up on her toes to press a kiss against his cheek. She turned, closing her eyes to avoid compounding her mortification by the sight of _that table_ , to allow him to fasten the clasp around his neck.

“There now,” he said, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to face him once more. “I won’t keep you. I know you have a lot to do to get ready.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, pressing one more kiss against his cheek as she fled from the room. Taking refuge in her former bedroom, she attempted to regain her composure. Once her heart had resumed a slow, steady pace, she stared at her reflection in bemusement for a long moment.

That she and John might be in love? Whatever could have given her father _that_ impression?

* * *

Her earlier composure notwithstanding, Margaret quailed as she approached the wide church doors on her father’s arm. Although she felt certain she’d made the right choice in deciding not to cry off the engagement, she hadn’t forgotten her earlier fear that Mr Thornton might come to resent her for binding him for life to a loveless union. That he would always endeavor to treat her with respect was certain; he was too good a man to do otherwise. But although she’d never sought his love, her heart ached at the prospect that she might need to one day reconcile herself to polite disdain as her only cold companion.

The future was uncertain, she told herself as she stepped into the serene sanctuary of the church. Her eyes locked on John’s, and the steadiness of his gaze gave her courage. He didn’t look as though he might one day come to resent her. Indeed, he looked pleased to be taking her for his bride. Their life together might not be all that he had wanted, but perhaps her fearful premonitions would never come to pass, after all.

Finding comfort in the presence of her husband-to-be, Margaret kept her attention fixed on him as she made her way to the front of the church. She hardly noticed the words of the holy ceremony, struck as she was by the handsomeness of the man by her side. He had always cut a compelling figure; even when she had believed herself to dislike him, she’d been unable to tear her eyes away from him. She’d sought him out in every room, searched for him on every street. He’d challenged her, frustrated her, even angered her, and yet she’d found herself compelled to send one last look at him over her shoulder, every time she walked away.

Now, dressed in his Sunday best, it was enough to make even the most sensible girl’s heart run away with her, to spark the imagination of even the most prosaic minds, inspiring an endless stream of fairy tale love stories and happily-ever-afters. She watched him out of the corner of her eye throughout the ceremony, silently cataloguing every expression that crossed his countenance, her heart racing anew at each subtle gesture and movement.

Was every bride so fanciful and foolish at her wedding? It seemed only right that one should be so, the recognition of this fact sufficient to soothe any alarm that might otherwise overtake her at the realization of his effect upon her.

When it came time to exchange their vows, Margaret found her voice surprisingly calm and firm, her words carrying over the congregation with confident authority. To her astonishment, it was her groom, typically so self-assured, who gave in to a slight display of nervous excitement, at first attempting to slip her wedding band upon the wrong hand. The crowd tittered in indulgent humor as she offered him a gentle correction, guiding him to the correct appendage, and the wedding ceremony concluded without further incident. His lips pressed upon hers, the embrace properly chaste for the occasion, and it was done.

In the eyes of the law and of the church, Miss Margaret Hale was no more. She was bound to him for all eternity as his wife. _Mrs John Thornton. Margaret Thornton._

He slipped his hand in hers as they faced the congregation, and her gaze roamed the crowd, searching for familiar faces. So few of her own friends and family had been able to attend the ceremony – her party consisted primarily of her father, the Higgins family, and Mr Bell. Still, Nicholas offered her an encouraging smile when their eyes met, his own aglow with mischievous happiness, and she was warmed by both his presence and genuine affection. Though he had once held her fiancé – no, her _husband_ , she reminded herself sternly – in a sort of contemptuous distrust, she understood the two men had formed a sort of understanding, gaining mutual respect as they worked together to address some of the more pressing needs of the millworkers under Mr Thornton’s care.

They left the church in a flurry of well-wishes and stood outside to greet their guests in turn. As Margaret accepted Mary’s congratulations, drawing the younger girl in for a brief embrace, she saw her new mother-in-law (was she to refer to her as “Mother Thornton” from now on? What a terrifying thought!) approach, remaining nearby until the last of the guests had trickled through the church doors. At first, she thought perhaps the older woman remained close to ensure Margaret did nothing to discredit herself or her new family, but she was amazed to realize that her mother-in-law did so in a tacit show of support for the new couple, silently conveying her approval of the newest member of her family – an approval Margaret had more than sufficient cause to understand wasn’t genuine, but was appreciated nonetheless.

Still struck by this unanticipated extension of familial loyalty on her behalf, Margaret found herself compelled to speak of it to her husband upon finding herself alone with him in the carriage on the way to the wedding breakfast. “Is your mother feeling entirely herself today?” she asked teasingly as she resisted the temptation to relax into his arms for the duration of the drive. “I could swear she wanted everyone to believe she approves of our marriage, when I can’t believe her opinion of me has changed so dramatically.”

Reaching for her hand, he covered it in his own, his fingers absently stroking against hers as he remarked, “You’re a Thornton now. Whatever her private reservations, my mother would never discredit our name by speaking publicly against any member of our family.” After a moment’s pause, he ventured in a grave voice, “I know you’ve had your disagreements, but would you make an effort with her? It would mean a great deal to me if the two of you could come to an understanding.”

“Of course,” she agreed readily, though she knew it was easier said than accomplished. Leaning in slightly until her shoulder pressed against his, she lifted one hand to cup his cheek, marveling at the newfound freedom to do so without the risk of public embarrassment or ridicule if they were seen exchanging such a tender gesture. “You’re a fortunate man, you know. Your mother loves you very much.”

“As your mother loved you, I’m sure. And as she would have loved a son, if she’d had one,” he agreed readily. It was her opportunity to explain the truth of that scene he’d witnessed in the train station. She even opened her mouth to do so – to divulge the truth that her parents _did_ have a son, but he was currently (and perhaps forever) separated from them by fear of an unjust punishment accorded to him for his role in a morally just mutiny. But she found she could not. If she told him the truth, she had no doubt that he would forgive her readily, but then she would never know if his trust in her would have ever overcome his pride. And though she couldn’t explain why, it had become increasingly important that he not just treat her with honor. She needed to know that this man – John, _her husband_ – believed in her.

Heedless of her mental preoccupation, he continued, “It’s true. I am fortunate in her love.” The carriage had slowed, and his gaze drifted out the window as he mused to himself in a voice almost too soft for her to hear, “She’s the only one who truly cares for me.”

The carriage rocked to a halt, but Margaret refused to release his hand, giving it a slight tug when he would have pulled away. “Surely you don’t mean that!” she protested hotly. Sadly, before he could reply, the carriage door opened, and the newlyweds were swept into such celebratory revelry of their nuptials that drove all thoughts of his softly spoken declaration from her thoughts.

The remainder of the day passed in a blur, leaving Margaret exhausted as they returned to the house that she would now call home. Resting her head against her husband’s shoulder, she allowed her thoughts to drift, lulled to a state of hazy consciousness by the rhythmic rocking of the carriage. She was only brought back to herself when the carriage came to a halt and she felt the soft press of a kiss against the top of her head.

Her eyes fluttering open, she flushed in embarrassment, but John didn’t appear to notice her discomposure. Instead, he stepped out of the carriage before reaching inside to help Margaret onto her feet. To her surprise, however, he didn’t escort her down the carriage step. Instead, he lifted her easily into his arms, carrying her to the front door. When she let out a tiny gasp of surprise at her sudden weightlessness, he smiled down at her, his eyes glinting with tender affection. “Come now, Mrs Thornton. Surely it’s tradition to carry the bride across the threshold in the South, as well?”

She nodded, too struck by the strength of his arms to reply. He carried her as though she weighed nothing, and she closed her eyes as she marveled at the play of muscles against her side as he moved. She found herself struggling against disappointment when he ducked through the front door and placed her gently back onto her feet.

His voice embraced her like a caress as he pressed a kiss against her lips. “Welcome home, Mrs Thornton.”


	8. Chapter 8

As John put her back on her feet, Margaret told herself that she should release him from her grasp, but her hands seemed unwilling to comply. He seemed no more inclined to move away than she, his breath warm against her cheek as he gazed into her eyes. She longed for him but lacked the words to say as much. Nor did she quite know how to continue, her mother never having had the opportunity to guide her on such matters prior to her death.

Of course, she wasn’t totally ignorant of what was to happen. She had already given in to physical passion once – it was the entire reason she was now married, after all. But she wasn’t entirely certain how these matters were supposed to proceed as a matter of course. She assumed he would come to her tonight, but would he assume the same? Did he depend upon her to issue an oblique invitation?

Whether he felt as anxious and uncertain as she, or whether his thoughts were occupied on other matters, he asked, “Were you sorry to have to leave the dancing so soon?” With the millworkers expected to return to work in the morning, the celebrations had not gone as long into the evening as they had at Edith’s nuptials, but Margaret had been gratified that her new husband had stood up with her for more than one number. His dancing had perhaps lacked a certain amount of polish, marked by the occasional slight hesitation that suggested he was out of practice – but he had acquitted himself well enough for her mind.

“I’m not much for dancing,” she confessed. She enjoyed the occupation upon occasion, but she wouldn’t go so far as to call herself accomplished at the activity.

“I thought Southerners liked nothing better than to spend their days in idleness and their evenings in dancing,” he teased.

“For shame, Mr Thornton!” she cried in mock indignation, her tone too light to either cause or fear offense. “It hasn’t even been a day, and you’re already marking your new bride’s failings? It’s not the way of a gentleman, you know.”

His hands began to stroke the length of her back, his touch releasing tension in muscles she hadn’t realized she had tensed. His voice caressed her, encouraging her to melt in his embrace, as he replied softly, “I may not be a gentleman, but if you have any failings, I can’t see them. Forgive me?”

Although she was distracted by his touch, there was one matter that had preyed upon her mind throughout the day. Pulling away slightly, she looked up at him in concern. “You’re forgiven, provided you’ll forgive me in return for the day’s distractions. You’ve been working so hard at the mill—”

“A day’s loss won’t make much of a difference,” he reassured her.

They had been standing in the entryway, lost in each other’s eyes for far too long, even for newlyweds. Particularly since theirs was not a love match. The servants would talk – Margaret was well aware of the predilection for gossip in Milton – and her behavior would only reinforce their conviction that she had long conspired to trap the most eligible Master of Marlborough Mills into marriage. “It’s been a long day. Is there somewhere I could freshen up?”

John looked at her in consternation. “Yes, of course. I’ll show you to your room. I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer to – well, I didn’t want to assume.” Taking her hand, he escorted her upstairs. Halting outside a closed door, he displayed a slight degree of uncharacteristic sheepishness as he explained, “Jane set up your room earlier today. I hope it’s to your liking.”

Striving to hide her surprise, she pushed open the door and peered in at the furnishings, though she didn’t enter. “It’s lovely,” she acknowledged. Was there a genteel way to inquire as to the location of his room? It wasn’t a question she’d ever had to consider before.

As she pondered her predicament, she felt herself drawn to him and stepped back into his embrace. Their mouths met, and Margaret closed her eyes. Her heart started to race, as she wondered once again if she was expected to invite him to join her in her bed that evening, and if he would think less of her for being so forward if she did. Then again, she had been unthinkably forward in her father’s house, and he had still married her, so perhaps he didn’t find her unseemly for her boldness.

“And your room?” she asked, striving to hide her embarrassment at the implication.

“Next door.” He hesitated. Surely in time, they would grow more comfortable with each other, and these encounters would lose this initial awkwardness.

He was offering her an opportunity for her own private sanctuary, and she appreciated his thoughtfulness and care. She was even tempted to accept his offer, though she feared that impulse did her little credit. She was a bride, now. _His_ bride. A lifetime of sermons had instilled within her an awareness of her wifely duty, even if it had failed to address some of the more pertinent logistics. But it was the longing in her own body and heart rather than any spiritual, legal, or moral decree that compelled her to move past him and enter his room.

She was unsurprised to note that it was a very masculine bedchamber, the furnishings large and imposing, but it was not without its charm. Clutching her hands before her, she made a show of gazing about her with an appreciative smile. “It’s perfect. Just needs a woman’s touch. I can have my things moved in tomorrow.” Then, afraid she might have overstepped, she added with a bashful smile, “Unless…do you mind? If you’d prefer your privacy—”

She was afraid of seeming too forward, but they were married now. Was it even possible to be too forward with one’s husband? Alternatively, was his decision to set them up in separate rooms due as much to his own inclination as his assumption of her preference?

He shook his head, brushing the back of his fingers along the curve of her cheek. “You’re my wife, Margaret. Everything I have is yours. Everything I _am_ is yours.”

She had intended to return to the room he’d prepared for her, to ready herself for her first night as his wife. But when she felt the first brush of his lips upon hers, her resolve to leave him fled, and she melted into his arms. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to a nearby chair, pulling her into his lap. His kisses were slow and unhurried, and he caressed her back, soothing her with his touch.

* * *

It seemed to John that holding Margaret had to be the closest he would ever come to touching Heaven. How long had it been since she had left that first, indelible imprint upon his heart? He could swear it beat now only for her – a fanciful thought, but wasn’t a man entitled to a bit of whimsy on his wedding day?

He longed to carry her into his bed, to do as he should have done that day in her father’s sitting room. To linger where he had once hurried, to request what he had once demanded and she had freely given in return. But when he kissed her, he could taste her fear, her anxiety, and that wasn’t what he wished for her on their first night as man and wife – or any evening after.

But if John was anything, it was patient, and if there was anything that was worth waiting for throughout his entire existence, it was this. He kissed her until she became liquid in his arms, her breaths warm and ragged in his ear. Then he lifted one hand, stroking her through her gown.

She stiffened at this contact, but he kept his touch soft, undemanding, until she relaxed into him once more. Only then did he pull away, resting his forehead upon hers. “Are you afraid?” he whispered softly.

“Not anymore,” she responded in kind.

Though he shook with the urge to touch her, he helped her to her feet. Then he rose and reached for her, helping remove her dress and corset with much more care and a good deal less grace than he usually employed. She laughed when he attempted to assist her in letting down her hair, their hands tangling as they sought out errant pins until her hair cascaded down her back. Her sigh of pleasure became a soft moan when he ran his fingers through it, marveling at its texture, and laughed again – this time, with nervous shyness – when he placed her on the bed to assist with the removal of her stockings. As willing and pliable as she’d been, however, she balked when he reached for her chemise.

He was moving too fast, and he drew back, ready to wait until she was ready for him, but she reached for his hand, pulling her back to her. “May I see you?”

He was more than willing to comply, quickly shedding his clothes until he was stripped to the waist. Upon consideration, he left his trousers untouched. Although his bride seemed eager, he reminded himself that she had been an innocent, before he had touched her. It wouldn’t do to scare her now.

Returning to the bed, he stretched out beside her, forcing himself to remain still as she reached for him. Her touch was cautious, exploratory, but she couldn’t have more effectively teased him if doing so had been her intent. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, to regulate his breathing, as her hands swept along his chest. She seemed entranced by the play of muscle and bone, her fingertips tracing the lines of his ribcage and muscles of his stomach, which quivered under her caress.

When he opened his eyes once more, he was gratified to see his own desire reflected in her face, and this time, she didn’t pull away when he reached for her. Lifting her into his lap, he was drawn to her warmth, bowing his head to moisten her breast through the thin fabric of her chemise. She shuddered in his arms, and he swept his hands beneath the hem of the flimsy undergarment, stroking her soft thighs.

His own breathing was ragged as he grabbed the bottom of her chemise, but he waited until she met his eyes and nodded slightly, a silent acquiescence to his unspoken request. In one smooth motion, he lifted the garment over her head and tossed it aside, leaning her back until she lay upon the pillows. Then, resting his weight on one arm, he drew back to look at her.

Margaret, so bold in her passion, grew shy under the weight of his regard. A blush stained her chest, rising up her neck to color her cheeks, and she pulled her arms across her breasts to hide herself from his view.

“It’s all right,” he reassured her, placing one hand over hers. He waited until she relaxed once more beneath him to slowly draw her hand aside. This time, she allowed him to reveal her body without protest, though he could still see her uncertainty in her eyes. Resting one hand upon her stomach, he trailed his fingertips slowly along her smooth skin, marveling at its softness. A faint cluster of freckles dotted the skin between her breasts, and he found himself both entranced and enchanted by this unexpected slight imperfection.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed in rapt wonder, wincing at the sound of his own voice as it broke the silence that had fallen between them. Everything about him was harsher and harder than she, including the edges of his thick Northern accent. By rights, he should never have been allowed to touch, let alone tarnish, someone as lovely as she, and he blessed whatever fortuitous star had shone upon him, to bring her into his life. “I’ve never seen such beauty.”

“John,” she whispered in return, her voice sweeping along her skin and twisting something beneath his breast. It hadn’t been lost upon him that she’d largely avoided calling him by his given name since their reckless coupling in her father’s house. Even earlier in the evening, when she had gently teased him, she had referred to him as ‘Mr Thornton.’ He hadn’t protested, fully understanding that she would require time to grow used to their (and undoubtedly unwanted, on her part) altered circumstances.

He treasured the sound of his name upon her lips and committed each instance to memory, well aware that she had only spoken it thrice since that fateful day – once, in response to his proposal; once, when she had requested a boon of him as a wedding present; and once, when she had pledged herself to him ‘til death they do part.

Even his well-honed capacity for self-denial had its breaking point, and he didn’t know how much longer it would last. Rising off the bed, he extinguished the lamps before quickly removing the remainder of his clothing. John was a proud man – and he believed he had every right to be – so it wasn’t shame that prompted him to undress in the dark. Rather, it was in consideration for his new wife’s feelings. She’d felt shy in her own nakedness; he didn’t wish to overwhelm her by a confrontation with his own.

Stripped bare, John climbed back into bed, pulling Margaret with him under the blankets, and he began to caress her body with greater intent and purpose. Lovemaking was an act which seemed more accommodating to a man’s desires, but he was determined to deny her no pleasure it was in his capacity to give. With his hands and his mouth, he explored her body, reveling in every sigh, every gasp, every moan until she was quivering in his arms.

With her back pressed against him, he thrust two fingers inside her, pressing his palm against her as he simulated with his hand what he longed to do with his body. She cried out, her head falling back against his shoulder, and his body responded, his hips bucking fruitlessly toward hers, but he didn’t give in to his own need until he felt her grow rigid in his arms, the cords in her neck stiffening as she became undone in his arms. Only then did he allow himself to move over her, bracing his weight on his arms as he knelt between her legs and entered her with an exultant cry of his own.

John wasn’t a “proper gentleman” like the men Margaret would have known in London, or even in her beloved Helstone. In truth, he had never wished to be such a man, but for her. He’d always believed a man’s worth lay in his actions, in his honor and his industry, rather than in the size of his purse. He knew the value of hard work and appreciated the satisfaction that came from a job well done. A life of idleness would suit him ill.

But he knew Margaret had always longed to marry such a gentleman. Moreover, a man such as that was what she deserved, sweet and gentle lady that she was. Had circumstance not forced her hand, she never would have chosen a man such as he, and though it was not in his inclination, he would try to be a proper gentleman for her.

How would a such a gentleman act, in an occasion such as this? He would treat her with courtesy and care. Gritting his teeth, John closed his eyes and tried to be so with her, his thrusts soft, slow, and gentle, but Margaret was both impatient and a quick study, and she had learned from their previous experience together. When he would have treated her with cautious gentility, she responded with imprudence, wrapping her legs around his hips and drawing him into her.

It was an unlikely reversal of roles. When John thought he should ask, she demanded. When he would have attempted to exercise care, she threw caution to the wind. The threads of his self-control frayed and he succumbed to his passion for her, thrusting into her hard and deep until he felt his own release wash over him. Then, for fear of how they would betray him and his innermost feelings, he pressed his lips upon hers and allowed her kiss to forestall the ill-conceived confession of love that struggled to break free.

Later, as Margaret slept beside him, her body curled into his and her head resting upon his chest, he ran his fingers through the silken strands of hair that tickled his cheek with every breath. Though his body was sated, his mind was ill-at-ease, fixated upon a conundrum at the expense of his rest.

Although he had fully enjoyed their lovemaking, he could no longer ignore the signs of her innocence and unfamiliarity with the act. Her modesty and inexperience felt too genuine to have been feigned, and while he treasured their first kisses, he could vividly recall her initial awkwardness that spoke of a lack of practice. But how could that be, if Margaret had enjoyed the attentions of another lover? She’d sworn her innocence and his misunderstanding of the embrace she’d exchanged with the stranger on the train platform. Had she been telling the truth?

He also had to acknowledge an inability to reconcile the conflict within his own mind regarding his perception of her. In his jealousy and heartbreak, he’d believed her to be capable of bestowing her charms upon another, but his heart and mind were almost cruel in their conviction that he could never aspire to deserve a woman such as her, that she was too far above the likes of him. So which was it? The lightskirt or the lady? The wanton or the innocent?

Everything within him (save, perhaps, for his wounded pride) believed her incapable of the charges he’d once laid upon her doorstep. He wouldn’t have loved her before – he wouldn’t love her still – if he truly believed in her disreputability and shame. With his life’s breath, he would vow that she’d do nothing to dishonor him or their marriage. How could he hold so deep a conviction if he truly had no faith in her or her character?

And yet he couldn’t pretend that his accusations had been without either cause or merit. He’d seen her on that train platform, embracing another man. She’d sworn the embrace was innocent, but how could it be? He wasn’t her father, who might be entitled to claim such evidence of attachment, and she had no brother – at least, none that either she or her father had ever claimed. Why would they keep such a man secret if he were to exist? It didn’t make sense that they would do so, but that left the question of who could he have been, that such an embrace could have been apparent and yet blameless?

Furthermore, if she was innocent of the implication of such improper conduct, why wouldn’t she confess the truth of the situation to clear her reputation of any untoward and unjust accusation? And why in heaven’s name had she agreed to marry him? He might be willing to fool himself into believing that her passion for him had been too great to ignore, but not even for the sake of his own broken heart could he ever deceive himself that she had developed a genuine attachment for him.

 _“I do not love you. I never have. I never will.”_ No, there was no attachment there, not on her part, at any rate. Not even in his most desperate and fanciful imaginings could he delude himself into believing her feelings for him had changed over the course of their engagement.

Had she married him in the hopes he could provide for her a secure future? If so, he could hardly blame her for it, though the situation at the mill was too precarious for him to have unwavering confidence in his ability to do so at present. He had warned her as much, and while it was true that she’d kindly rejected his offer to cry off the engagement, she didn’t have to care for him to have faith in his business acumen. She might have been willing to gamble her future on the belief that they wouldn’t suffer under financial constraints for long. Perhaps she’d decided he was worth the risk, particularly given the comparative dearth of other suitable prospects in Milton.

That she’d married him to secure her future was the only possible conclusion his mind could reach, and yet it rested poorly in his heart. And so, while Margaret slumbered in contented peace, John wrestled with the confusion and doubt that continued to plague him until the faint light of dawn spilled through his bedroom window and he finally, mercifully, followed her into a dreamless sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Until he met Margaret, John had never given much thought to marriage, other than to occasionally acknowledge he would one day be expected to enter into the institution. With so much responsibility to assume after the death of his father, he’d wasted little time imagining the type of lady he might one day take as a wife, and less time still pondering how such an arrangement would impact his life. Such concerns, while admittedly important, had fallen to the wayside in light of more immediate concerns, until they rarely crossed his mind at all.

Until her. Until Margaret. Though he could not now look back and identify the single moment when he first loved her, his attachment to her was undeniable, fixed, and constant. It might always be hoped that marriage should bring felicity to the involved parties, but in the privacy of his own heart, John felt he was likely happier than most, for few other men could be as fortunate in choice of bride or as unwavering in depths of love as he.

His only concern, in those first few days of married life, was that Margaret would not count herself quite as fortunate, not having the same manner of attachment. However, he was pleased to see that she seemed content in her choice of groom, and he strove to undertake any manner of activity that might please her.

Her initial shyness in physical matters quickly gave way to enthusiastic engagement (although he’d never forget that first, scandalized protest: _“John, it’s the middle of the day!”_ ). As her reservations faded, her playfulness increased, and he risked tardiness to more than one appointment due to her reluctance to let him leave her side, as well as his own unwillingness to do the same.

So it could be comfortably said that married life treated him well, and he hoped, at least, that it was equally as kind to Margaret. He had one initial reservation, early on, that she might not be as she seemed. The moment came upon her receipt of a letter from her cousin, Edith. After relaying the details of some ridiculous scheme to him over breakfast – the details of which had long since escaped his memory – John had remarked that Edith was a fortunate woman, thinking of her near scrape.

In response, a wistful expression overtook Margaret’s face as she remarked, “Indeed. She and the Colonel are very much in love, and she’s fortunate to find someone who can be so forgiving of her failings.”

John had watched as her attention fell to her plate, where she poked dispiritedly at her breakfast, the happy mood broken, and he’d wondered if she regretted that she had not married for the same reason. The moment soon passed, however, and the felicity between the newly married couple was quickly restored, leaving little more than a shadow in his own mind as evidence it had ever existed.

And so, secure in his own happiness and confident in hers (being, as he was, willing to do whatever he could to ensure it), the newlyweds’ happiness was only marred by the increasingly strained financial situation at the mill. Although John tried to protect her from such concerns, the stress of the situation weighed on him and took him away from his bride more often than he would have wished.

One evening, he returned late from work to find Margaret at her dressing table, putting the final pins into her hair to ready herself for dinner with Fanny and Watson. His sister had invited the family to dine with her that evening, which John suspected was due more to a desire to show off her newest furnishings than any filial yearning. She loved them all, in her own way, but she had never been overly susceptible to sentiment.

Exhausted by the day’s exertions, he lingered in the doorway, content to do nothing more than gaze at his wife, but he was drawn to her side when she threw a smile at him over her shoulder. “How do I look?” she asked coquettishly, and he found himself entranced by her smooth, pale shoulders. He had seen her in this dress once before, at his mother’s last dinner party, and it had been all he could do that evening not to pull her in his arms and press his lips against that skin bared so tantalizingly before him.

He gave into that temptation now, bending to press a kiss against the curve of her shoulder, but Margaret caught his arm and drew him down to her instead, until he was on one knee at her side. Cupping his face in her hands, her expression was grave as she stroked his cheeks with her thumbs in a slight, comforting gesture.

“You’ve been working yourself to exhaustion lately. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Touched by her concern, he leaned into her embrace and murmured, “This trouble at the mill will pass.” He hoped it would, at any rate. “Having you here with me is enough.”

Margaret was unwilling to be so easily placated. “But is there anything I can do at the mill? I’m not afraid of hard work, you know.”

Grabbing one hand gently in his own, he pressed a kiss against the inside of her wrist. “There may be,” he acknowledged, moved more than he could express that she’d taken an interest in the mill on his behalf, and not solely on behest of his workers. “Let me think on it tonight, and we can talk about it tomorrow.”

She looked so grave, so serious. While her concern over his wellbeing sparked hope in his breast that she was not indifferent to him, he didn’t wish to cause her concern, and so he remarked lightly, in an attempt at levity, “But only if you promise you won’t cause any mischief or encourage my workers to rise up in a revolt against me.”

For just a moment, he feared she might be affronted by his remark, but she quickly alleviated any concerns on that score. “No serious mischief, I assure you. Only the occasional minor act of rebellion,” she teased him in return. Growing more serious, she confessed, “I know it’s expected that I play the role of obedient wife, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I speak my mind when I think it necessary.”

The thought of her holding her tongue caused him wry amusement; Margaret’s opinionated nature had vexed him in the past, but he wouldn’t love her if she were anything other than she was. “Of course. I hope we can grow comfortable enough with each other one day that there should be no need for secrets between us. Should I take this to mean you’ve already planned your first mutiny?”

She looked troubled at his words, but she shook her head and reassured him lightly, “Hardly a full-scale insurrection! I’ve just been thinking. I know it isn’t possible now, but when matters at the mill are resolved, I intend to speak to you about raising your workers’ salaries to what they were a few years ago, at least. It would make them more comfortable, and that would make them more productive and increase their loyalty to you.”

While John would have resented anyone else’s interference with his affairs, he respected Margaret’s opinion at least enough to entertain the suggestion. There was logic to her argument, at least, although he was hardly in a position to enact the measure at the present time. “Perhaps,” he conceded, promising, “When the bank loan is paid in full, I’ll give your suggestion its due consideration.”

Her joyful smile was more than sufficient recompense for this concession, although there remained a shadow behind her eyes, and he reached up to brush a stray lock of hair off her cheek. “Does this mean you no longer consider me the overbearing monster you once believed me to be?” he asked, wondering how she could be ignorant of the feelings in his heart, betrayed as they were by the tenderness in his voice.

“I never thought you a _monster_!” she replied in faint protest.

Her obvious oversight made him smile. “But you did think me overbearing?”

She scowled at him in mock affront. “Well, perhaps a little,” she allowed. Her hands became restless, one rising to brush the hair off his forehead as she continued in a less playful tone, “I may have misjudged your character at first, but I’ve long since come to realize the depths of my misunderstanding. I suspect I think better of you than you realize.”

His heart began to race as hope settled in his breast, refusing to relinquish its hold upon him. He felt he could barely breathe as he asked, “Does that mean…do you think you might come to love me?”

The warmth in her eyes gave him momentary hope that she might one day return his affections, but he watched as an expression of such horror overtook her countenance that pierced his heart. “Oh!” she gasped in alarm, her eyes wide in mortification. “I—”

Suspecting she was searching for the words to reject him without causing undue injury or offense to his pride, and eager to make amends for his overstep and distract her from the unwelcome imposition of his feelings, he forced a smile. Sliding his hands under her skirts, he attempted to divert her attention to a less controversial subject. “We have some time before we should leave, after all.”

Margaret appeared surprised, and she sucked in a deep breath when he lifted her leg to brush a kiss against her bare skin. If she couldn’t accept his feelings, he could only hope she would believe that he had always intended to refer to the physical act of love rather than some deeper emotion. Whether she believed in his fiction or was merely happy to pretend in order to prevent awkwardness between them, she seemed willing to play along.

 _“John!”_ she gasped as he ducked under the heavy fabric of her skirts, rubbing his cheek against her leg, but she didn’t draw away. On the contrary; she placed her palms upon the mound of his head through her skirts and held him in place, even as she remarked, “We’ll be late!”

“Fanny will wait,” he murmured, scraping his teeth against her inner thigh. Her slight moan of pleasure was enough to drive him onward, and he occupied himself beneath her skirts until the chiming of the clock recalled the pair to their appointment. John’s body protested the rude interruption, but he was charmed by the brightness in his bride’s eyes and the flush on her cheeks, which spoke to her own smoldering desire. At least she had been adequately diverted from dwelling upon the words he’d so foolishly spoken, and he intended to resume his attentions to her later that evening to ensure that the memory dared not reenter her mind.

In the meantime, he turned his own thoughts to more repressive matters as he willed his blood to cool before the sight of his current state scandalized his dinner companions.

* * *

 _“Does that mean…do you think you might come to love me?”_ The words replayed themselves over and over in Margaret’s mind as she prepared herself for the day ahead. _“Does that mean…do you think you might come to love me?”_ In her preoccupation, she stuck herself with a hairpin and winced, forcing her mind back to more mundane matters. Yet the memory of his softly spoken question the night before continued to plague her thoughts.

 _“Does that mean…do you think you might come to love me?”_ She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, striving to quell the mortification that arose within her at the memory. It was not the question that elicited such chagrin but the answer that had hovered upon her lips in return.

 _“I already do.”_ Her heart had been ready to confess to the feelings that her head had long been determined to deny, and Margaret had only swallowed the words at the last moment. That they could have crept upon her so thoroughly in defiance of her own awareness astonished her, but the certainty with which her heart had answered horrified her.

She loved him. When had the attachment first taken hold of her heart? For how long had she been living in denial of her own feelings?

Of course, it was not the usual nature of things, to meet such tender feelings with dismay – certainly not when the recipient of said feelings was her own husband. However, in the matter of Margaret and John’s marriage, things were not so simple. Margaret loved him, it was true. _She loved him_ – the thought brought such a mixture of joy and alarm that it nearly made her lightheaded. But while they had not spoken of her presumed lover – secretly her brother – since their engagement, she had no cause to believe he’d changed his mind about her.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to force a change of heart from him. All she had to do was to reveal the truth. Doing so would undeniably alter his opinion of her, but it would do so without resolving her fundamental concern. Relating the whole truth to him now would justify his trust in her now, but it would not compel it in the future. And, regardless of her own tender feeling for John, Margaret knew she could never be truly happy in her marriage if her own husband couldn’t claim to truly know or understand her. If she told him the truth now and forced his concession of her own blamelessness (at least of the charges that had been placed upon her doorstep, though she had courted danger in urging Frederick return in defiance of the charges against him), she would never truly feel the assurance of her husband’s faith in her character and person.

But what was she to do? Carrying this secret in her heart grew more trying by the day, John’s coincidental use of the word _mutiny_ the night before nearly sending her out of her own skin. His assertion that there should be no secrets between them had caused such a swelling of guilt in her own heart that she’d longed to tell him all. Her heart and her mind were at war, locked in a skirmish that she’d just come to realize had been waging for far longer than she’d ever suspected.

 _She loved him_. It was still astonishing to her that those feelings could have crept upon her without her knowledge. Lost in her thoughts, she hardly registered the words her mother-in-law spoke as they took a tour of the mill, looking for ways that Margaret could lend assistance to her husband’s enterprise. Almost against her will, she found herself watching for him, scanning the crowd for his familiar – _beloved!_ – figure and face.

She nodded at something one of the workers said, though she had no idea what it had been, as her eyes drifted up to the landing above. And there she saw him, as she had on that very first day. John. _Her_ John. Her husband.

Their eyes met, and Margaret held her breath, unable to breathe from the twisting in her heart at the sight of him. So tall and commanding. She had once thought his features so remote – even severe – but now she knew the way they could soften with a smile. She’d once thought his eyes cold, but now she knew the only thing warmer was his touch.

If she reached out her hand to him now, would he come to her? Perhaps he would. He had always been there for her, even when another man would have turned away. When her mother was dying, he’d sent fresh fruit even after her rejection of his hand, demonstrating a level of thoughtfulness and compassion that had shamed her for her treatment of him. And when the man who had accosted her brother was found dead, not only had he chosen not to betray her lie in professing she hadn’t been on the train platform that evening, she had no doubt he’d spoken with the eyewitness and encouraged the recantation that had ended the matter. In doing so, he had betrayed his honor and fundamental sense of honesty on her behalf.

But it was not for the services done to her that she loved him. It was for his person. There were two sides to him – the hard Master and the devoted husband – but Margaret no longer struggled in reconciling them. She had once thought him proud, even arrogant. She had even once thought him unfeeling, but she’d come to understand the truth of his character long before, and well before their precipitous engagement. He could be hard, but he was never unscrupulous. He was honest in his dealings, his genuine care and concern for his workers hidden beneath a stern demeanor and a veneer of sound business acumen.

She loved him. She loved him. _She loved him!_ She’d begun to wonder if it was possible she’d come to love him long before their marriage or even before their engagement. Had she loved him when she’d crept to his office to confront him about his callous accusations against her? Her behavior that evening had been so uncharacteristic of her, something she’d recognized even at the time but had refused to dwell upon for explanation. Had it been heartbreak, more than anger, that had propelled her to his doorstep? It certainly seemed likely that her attachment, hidden even from herself, had compelled her to kiss him that night. Let alone…well, everything that came after.

Oh, dear. Her newfound revelation couldn’t come at a worse time, and it was causing her to make a fool of herself, staring at her husband like a moon-eyed calf, for all the world to see. Tearing her gaze away from him at long last, she attempted to fix her attention upon her beleaguered mother-in-law, whose single-minded purpose could not be dissuaded by young love, particularly when she was likely skeptical of its existence. And rightly so, for hadn’t Margaret once openly scoffed at the notion of John’s attractiveness to the fairer sex?

What a fool she had been! What a fool love was making of her now! Her heart longed to lay itself at John’s feet, urging her to confess her feelings to her husband in the hopes that affection wasn’t just something he requested but something he offered her in return. More, that genuine attachment underlay his honorable intentions in offering for her. But that brought back the undecided question of his faith in her.

_“Does that mean…do you think you might come to love me?”_

She loved him, and so she owed him the truth of what he had seen that night on the train platform. If only there was a way to first assess whether he had succeeded in his efforts to grant her the wish she’d made of him before their wedding: that he find it in his heart to trust in her once more. As much as she loved him, any lingering doubt on that score would tear her up inside.

Pretending to attend to the task at hand, Margaret dutifully fell into step behind her mother-in-law, continuing her tour of the mill’s needs. But as she walked away, she couldn’t resist one last look over her shoulder at the imposing figure on the overlook above, and the face that had somehow become so dear to her. Her John.

For the sake of their marriage, for the sake of her own heart, she would find a way to restore his faith in her. Somehow.


	10. Chapter 10

Though John would never consider time spent with Margaret wasted – nor would he ever regret a single second of it – it did make the subsequent days longer as he strove to find a solution to his financial problem. The debt owed to the bank was a few hundred pounds – a paltry amount compared to what was owed him for orders that his workers had rushed through. He hoped each day for a miracle, that he would receive sufficient outstanding payments to satisfy the bank loan and secure his workers’ payroll, but he waited in vain. The bank’s deadline drew ever nearer, his coffers dwindled, and no miracle loomed on the horizon.

Had he been foolish to refuse Watson’s proposed speculation? If it succeeded, the profit from the venture would clear his debt and secure payroll for months to come. If it failed, however, what little funds he had to pay his people would be lost, with no hope of recovery. He would have left his workers destitute, and he felt he owed them more than to gamble with their livelihoods.

But if it succeeded…

He’d never before understood the siren’s song of speculation, which had led his own father to his death. In the aftermath of the elder Thornton’s self-inflicted demise, John had been forced into a life of poverty and self-deprivation, leaving school to care for his mother and sister and sparing as much money as he could each week to pay his father’s creditors, long after they’d given up any hope of satisfaction.

He’d worked hard, and in the secret recesses of his heart, he’d judged his father harshly for throwing away their fortunes on what amounted to little more than a game of chance. He’d never spoken of his recrimination or his shame aloud, out of consideration for his remaining family’s feelings – though his mother had never been one to mince words when it came to her own judgment, and Fanny had been too young and lacked the sentimental disposition required to be overly protective of either her affection for or her memory of the father she’d lost.

Now, however, he understood the temptation that had lured his father to his ruin, though his own sense of honor and the duty he owed those in his charge had caused him to shy away from the risky venture, no matter how high the potential reward. His refusal had angered Fanny, who had sworn that reward was certain and promised to be considerable, but John knew better than most that _speculation_ was merely that, and not even the wisest of men could guarantee a positive result.

And yet, if it succeeded…

If he’d gambled his mill’s future on the speculation and it turned a profit, his business would be clear of debt. His workers would be paid. He could continue to care for his mother in the manner he had for most of his adult life. He could provide Margaret with the life she deserved, if not the life she’d wanted. And nobody would ever have to know how bad things had been.

John shook his head, running his hands through his hair in a gesture of frustration and despair. No, there was no use in thinking about what might have been. He’d rejected Watson’s offer. He’d refused to engage in speculation, not when the cost of one ill-judged gamble could ruin so many lives. If he’d thrown his hat into the ring and the speculation failed, he’d lose the mill. The house. His workers would be out of jobs and left to starve, if they were unable to find work elsewhere. His mother’s situation would fall to what it had once been, after many years spent in comfort and security. And his wife…

If he’d speculated with his workers’ livelihoods and lost, recklessly subjecting them possible starvation, to the poverty from which he’d once uplifted himself, he wouldn’t be able to look at himself in the mirror without feeling shame. A man who could be so inattentive to his responsibility to others could never hope to deserve Margaret or the love he still wished in his heart might one day be his.

So he applied himself to work, each day seeming longer than the last. His beloved Margaret never chided him for his absence or his neglect, though she always seemed to anticipate the point at which reason was driven to the edge by exhaustion, as she would come to him on those evenings and silently draw him home with her, to sleep by her side. He could not fully confess his fears to her, but neither could he resist her, and his love for her sustained him every bit as much as her tender consideration brought him comfort.

But as the days passed, a nagging sense of doubt grew in his mind, a quiet whisper that warned that Margaret might not be as content as he would wish. Even as his financial apprehensions eclipsed other concerns vying for his attention, he noticed her increasingly troubled expression when she thought him unaware, though the worry lines smoothed from her countenance each time he turned her way. But she never spoke of her concerns, and he – weak, lovesick fool that he was – couldn’t summon the courage to ask, for fear that her preoccupation lay elsewhere. If her distress stemmed from regret, perhaps exacerbated by increasing concerns that he would fail to live up to his promise to provide her comfort and security, his heart would break anew.

Desiring to reassure her of the fidelity of his promise, John was determined to redouble the attention he paid his wife. To that end, he returned home one evening earlier than he typically had of late – the lure of Margaret’s company being far greater than that of the paperwork on his desk – to find her father in their drawing room, the other man having stopped by for a visit. Although slightly disappointed that his more amorous intentions would by necessity be delayed, John always enjoyed Richard Hale’s company and was pleased his calendar was free enough to appreciate it.

His pleasure was only heightened when he saw Margaret’s cheerfulness at the visit. “Mr Bell has invited Father to visit him in Oxford, and I’m encouraging him to go. Don’t you think it’s an excellent idea?” she explained, before turning her attention back to their guest. “It’s been so long since you’ve been to visit, and the weather’s turning warmer, so the roads will be a little easier.”

Mr Hale seemed encouraged by her enthusiasm. “I might go,” he acknowledged. Nodding, as much to himself as to her, he murmured, “Yes, yes. I think I might.”

With that decision seemingly fixed, their conversation turned to other matters for a while, until Richard stood to leave. “I think I will go to Oxford,” he declared, the idea clearly breaking him much joy. John and Margaret wished him well – the latter admonishing him to dress warmly, as there was still a chill in the air – and then he was on his way with their blessings.

Had John known it would be the last time Margaret would share his company, he would have begged the man to stay a while longer. Sadly, prescience was not among his accomplishments.

* * *

Although Margaret tried to find contentment in her present circumstances, the things left unsaid between husband and wife preyed upon her thoughts, seemingly increasing her anxiety by the hour. She loved John – more ardently than she ever would have ever supposed – and her silence on that score felt suffocating. She wanted to tell him of her feelings, but questions plagued her mind, sapping away both her contentment and her courage.

She had no illusions that John had come to trust her before taking her hand in marriage. Did he still doubt her integrity? Did he question her faithfulness? Would his opinion of her, once tarnished in his mind, forever carry a shadow of his distrust, even once the truth was known?

Even if she were to put her fears behind her, she couldn’t find the words to share her confession. It seemed impossible to do so without broaching the subject of the scene he had witnessed on the train platform, which had caused him such disgust and brought her so much pain. With so much weighing on his heart already, was it fair of her to upset whatever peace he’d managed to find thus far in their marital harmony?

What if he didn’t believe her? What if he was hurt she hadn’t spoken up before? His anger gave her no cause for alarm, but she couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting additional pain upon him. She would never wish to exact injury upon anyone, him least of all. Not her husband. Not the man she loved. And certainly not now, when his troubles were otherwise so great.

As the weeks passed immediately following her self-revelation, Margaret often found herself on the brink of confessing all to her husband. On each occasion, fear and inconvenient timing silenced her tongue. When the time was right, she promised herself that she would broach the topic of his suspicion and determine whether the trust she so needed to find true happiness in marriage had been regained. If so, she would tell him the truth. And confess to him her love.

In the meantime, she strove to provide him with such contentment, peace, and comfort as was within her power to give. She gave such assistance at the mill as she was able during the day and let her love wash over him at night, her body betraying the secrets of her heart, even if her lips could not. She felt his overwhelming weariness when they made love, pressing her mouth against the deep lines in his brow and offered him her strength when he sagged against her, his cheek pressed against her shoulder. In the aftermath of their coupling, he would fall asleep in her arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest and rhythmic beat of his heart soothing her own cares.

They had been married long enough for Margaret to grow accustomed to the idea but not long enough to overcome the full measure of her shyness – engrained in her from the time she was a child – at her husband viewing her nakedness when she awoke early one morning to see John standing before the fire, preparing his ablutions for the day ahead. He was stripped to the waist, his skin gleaming in the faint light. The fire in the grate was newly lit, its illumination weak and almost begrudging, but it was bright enough for her to see the ripple of muscles beneath his skin as he bent to splash cold water upon his face. She found herself entranced by the solid cord of muscle in his stomach and arms, the play of light and shadow against his upon his bare skin.

Though she doubted he would consider it a compliment, looking at him like this, she could only think how beautiful he was to her. How cherished. He stole her heart and took her breath away.

The sight of him drew her out of bed, the floor cold beneath her bare feet as she crossed the room, resting her hand gently upon his lower back as he straightened. He turned to face her, beads of moisture trailing down his face, and she placed her hand over his, gently tugging the towel from his grasp. He watched in silence as she tossed it aside and didn’t protest when she pressed her free hand against his chest and gave it a firm push, leading him into a nearby chair.

John didn’t say a word as he lowered himself into the seat, but his gaze missed nothing as she cast a critical eye upon the implements he’d laid out beside his washbowl. The shaving razor was open, its blade gleaming, already sharpened upon the strop in preparation for the task at hand. His soap had also already been prepared, the applicator brush resting nearby.

Margaret picking up the brush and mug of shaving soap, working up a lather as she turned back to her husband. His gaze had fallen to her hips, and she realized with a start that, standing before the fire as she was, the outline of her body would be visible through the thin fabric of her nightgown. The thought made her flush, but she feigned ignorance of the view she presented, even as she showed her body off to its best advantage, bending over him to lather his cheeks and chin.

John reached for her, bracing her hips in his palms. His hands were still damp from his morning wash, moistening the fabric of her dress. She shivered, biting back a soft moan of longing, when he pulled her forward until she straddled his chair, her thighs brushing the coarse fabric of his trousers. Unwilling to allow him to distract her from her purpose, she forced her attention to the task at hand, casting a critical eye upon his face to ensure the lather was sufficiently distributed. Then she reached for the razor, her hand trembling slightly as she lifted it to his cheek.

What had seemed like a good idea when she’d started was much more daunting now, when she held the sharpened razor in her hand and prepared to apply it to his bare skin. What if she made a mistake? What if she slipped and injured him? She hesitated, preparing to draw away, but he reached up and wrapped his hand around her own. His eyes were trusting, his gaze warm, as he drew the razor toward his cheek, adjusting the exact angle of the blade before pressing it gently against his skin. Then he dropped his hand, putting his fate entirely in her hands.

Margaret sucked in a sharp breath and narrowed her eyes, focusing the entirety of her attention upon the blade as she scraped it gently against his skin, breathing out a heavy sigh of relief when she managed her first pass without causing injury. Feeling more confident, she applied the blade again, her motions slow and cautious. As she worked, the back of her neck grew damp from the warmth of her fire, and the caress of John’s breath fanned her face as she leaned forward, intent upon her task. She could feel his gaze upon her, but it wasn’t distrust in his eyes. It was desire. Her answering need nearly overwhelmed her, and she required a moment to recollect her composure before she could continue.

With one side completed, John adjusted the angle of his head so that she could complete the job. Her heart pounded when she felt his hands slide under the hem of her nightdress, teasing the soft, sensitive skin of her thighs, and she sucked in an unsteady breath.

As she pulled the razor away, he slipped his fingers inside her, stroking her gently. Her head fell back with a moan, but she strove to gather her wits and regain control. Bracing her free hand on his shoulder, she cast an accusatory glance at his face, only to receive an unrepentant smile in return. However, the consciousness of his own well-being was such that he returned his hands to her hip when she wiped the lather off the blade, lifting it to continue her task.

Margaret’s heart pounded as she slid the razor along the curve of his jaw, and he tilted his head back to allow her greater access to his neck. Her efforts were perhaps not as clean as his would have been, but he didn’t seem to mind. When she finished her last pass, she grabbed a damp towel to wipe away the rest of the lather, but John gently tugged the blade from her hand, letting it fall to the floor. Then his mouth was upon her, teasing the bare flesh above the neck of her nightgown.

She opened her mouth to sigh his name, but the sound was captured by his lips as he pulled her firmly against him, pressing her against his hardness. Grabbing the bottom of her nightgown, he lifted it over her head and tossed it aside, and even in the increasing warmth of the room, she shuddered as she was bared before him. John didn’t seem to find anything amiss, however, as his attention was captivated by her smooth perfection.

Lifting his hand to cup her breast, Margaret found herself enthralled as she always was by his caress. The calluses on his palms were rough against her sensitive skin, but his touch was far from unpleasant. Her head fell back, exposing the curve of her neck, as he brushed a thumb against her aureole until her nipple beaded under his palm.

Her hands had fallen on his shoulders, and she gave in to the temptation to trail her fingertips down his chest, tracing the curve of muscle and bone. She felt first the rapid beat of his heart, then the muscles of his stomach shudder as he sucked in a sharp breath, and knew he wasn’t unaffected by her touch. In the light cast by the fire and the soft sunrise, his eyes were dark and filled with need. She wove her fingers into his hair, pressing him to her, as he bowed his head and sucked her breast into his mouth, teasing her with his tongue. She could feel the strength in his hands when he grasped her hips, guiding her motions as she rocked against him.

Only one layer of fabric separated their bodies, causing Margaret no end of frustration. Pressing her hands against his chest, she lifted off him far enough to reach for the buttons of his trousers. In her haste and her desire, her fingers were clumsy and awkward. Their hands tangled together when he attempted to assist her, causing her to laugh, the sound soft and strained.

She had only just managed to pull him free when he grabbed her thighs and pulled her into his lap once more, pausing only long enough to carefully guide himself inside of her. Margaret gasped as she sank onto him, her response inspired as much by the ominous creaking of the chair beneath them as the sudden fullness of his thrust. Anxious about the unsteadiness of their perch, she tightened her thighs around him and wrapped her arms around his neck, slowly rolling her hips against his.

John tucked his head against the curve of her neck, tickling her with the faint traces of stubble she’d overlooked in her earlier ministrations. His mouth scraped against her skin, eliciting a soft moan, while his hands explored her body, lingering in every spot which had previously brought her pleasure. He kissed the curve of her ear, her cheek, her chin, and Margaret rewarded his efforts with another slow roll of her hips.

Once again, she wrestled with the temptation to speak of her feelings, but this was hardly the time to do so. Her confession – or, rather, _confessions_ , as she believed she had identified a multitude that must be made by now – deserved more consideration than a rashly uttered declaration in the midst of lovemaking. They also required more deliberation than to be hastily blurted over breakfast, or on the way out the door to attend to more pressing concerns and outstanding appointments.

Still, her secret feelings nearly overwhelmed her, swelling within her breast until she couldn't speak for love of him. Leaning back slightly, she wrapped one hand behind his neck to hold him in place as her gaze swept over the face that had engraved itself upon her heart. Their eyes met, and she found she couldn’t tear her gaze away, entranced as she was by the play of emotions upon his face and in his eyes…

Once again, she marveled that she ever could have thought him to be cold and cruel, that she ever could have mistaken his hardness for lack of feeling. Though his features were under his command, frequently schooled into either an impassive mask or a glower of disdain, his eyes betrayed him. Even when he had accused her of impropriety, when he’d told her his passion for her had ended, the chill of his words hadn’t wounded her half so much as that which lay behind those blue eyes, which revealed much, but also saw more than she wished.

Margaret was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of fear at what he might comprehend of her own feelings. In an act of self-preservation, she tore her gaze away, pressing her cheek against the curve of his shoulder as he lifted his hips, plunging inside her.

As she met each powerful thrust with a roll of her hips, Margaret clung to her husband, wishing for nothing more than to prolong this interlude. She felt the muscles beneath her tense and knew he was nearing completion, so she increased the rhythm of her hips, pressing her mouth against his neck to taste the saltiness of his skin as his muscles grew taut and he poured himself inside her. The momentarily respite didn’t last long, however, as he cupped one hand behind her head, holding her against him as he slid the other between her legs, stroking her deftly until wave upon wave of pleasure crashed over her and she found her own release.

She collapsed against him, spent and unwilling to let him go, although she knew she couldn’t hold him in this moment forever. The harsh rasp of their breathing filled her ears, but as their hearts slowed and breathing steadied, the room grew quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the grate. When she could put off the inevitable no longer, she lifted her head off John’s shoulder, though she wasn’t yet able to meet his eyes, still uncertain of what her own would reveal.

“Margaret?” His voice was soft and uncertain, and her heart wrenched at the aching vulnerability it betrayed. She was unequal to the task of giving voice to her inner turmoil, so she stared at his lips as she stroked her fingers along the side of his face. Cupped his cheeks in her palms, pressed her mouth against his, drawing his tongue inside her parted lips. In unspoken reassurance, she deepened the embrace until she felt his lingering tension ebb away. When the kiss ended, she drew back to meet his eyes, confident that her own would no longer divulge her secrets.

Climbing off his lap, Margaret rushed to retrieve her nightgown from the floor, quickly pulling it on before turning her attention back to her husband. In the early morning light, Margaret was forced to acknowledge that she made for an imperfect barber, more than one small patch of stubble having escaped her blade, but John issued no complaint. Instead, he used a towel to wipe away what remnants of shaving soap remained, though Margaret noticed that a fair amount had transferred to her person.

Once he had dried his face with a towel, he began to toss it beside the bowl when Margaret grabbed his hand, staying his motion. There, on the bright white fabric, was a small red stain, a sign she had not been as careful with the razor as she had wished. Stretching onto her toes, she examined his skin and noticed the tiniest nick just below his right ear.

“I’m sorry,” she said, speaking as much for her continued silence as the injury she had inflicted upon him.

Touching a finger to the wound, he shook his head. “It’s not deep. It’ll heal soon enough.” He cast a glance at the window, and Margaret knew his mind was turning toward the mill, to the work left undone and the hours that lay ahead of him. Longing to steal just a few more precious moments with him, she helped him to dress, asserting the privilege of such intimacy that only a wife could claim.

The hour was growing late, and Margaret knew her husband was eager to begin his day, but still he hesitated, brushing a lock of hair off her cheek once she had finished straightening his cravat. “Margaret—” he began, a line of worry creasing the skin between his brows, “Forgive me for pressing, but you seem troubled. If something is bothering you, you can confide in me.”

Her heart twisted at the understanding that he had seen more than she’d wished, recognizing the fact of her preoccupation, although he did not yet understand the cause. Pulling him to her, she pressed a kiss against that telltale evidence of his concern. “It’s nothing,” she attempted, though she didn’t need to see his face to anticipate his answering skepticism. Taking his hands in hers, she remarked, “It’s getting late, and work is more important. I don’t want to keep you any longer than I already have.”

John wasn’t willing to be so easily deterred, tightening his hold on her hands. “My work may be necessary, but there is nothing in the world more important to me than you.”

His words gave her hope, and she smiled at him with all the sweetness she felt in her heart. “Very well, but it’s not – I’m not _troubled_ , precisely, but – do you think we could steal some time alone together this evening? There are some matters we should discuss.”

With obvious reluctance at the delay, he agreed, capturing her lips in one more kiss before heading out the door. Little did either of them know that a visit from Mr Bell later that same day would bring news that would drive all other concerns from her mind. For a while, at least.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your patience with this! The last few months of the year are always the busiest for me at work, and so the time I've had to write for fun has been severely curtailed. Rest assured, I haven't abandoned this story (and won't!). I think it has about 2-3 chapters remaining, and I'm already planning the next!

Margaret was in a cheerful mood when she headed down to breakfast. Her heart leapt at the prospect of confessing her feelings to her husband later that evening, though she knew a favorable outcome was hardly guaranteed. Still, it was just as easy to be optimistic as it was to fear the outcome of the conversation that lay ahead, and so she had determined to hold onto hope for as long as she could. The memory of his touch still lingering on her skin, the taste of his kiss upon her lips, gave her the courage that had lately seemed so elusive.

She was still smiling at the memory of their early morning lovemaking when she entered the dining room to find Hannah Thornton already seated at the table, her meal nearly finished. Margaret had thus far found great contentment and even happiness in her marriage to John, but she was grieved that her relationship with his mother remained something less than ideal, their distant – if polite – harmony ever teetering on the edge of an unseen precipice. Well aware of their lack of discord and the potential for conflict due to their equally strong personalities, both women took refuge in strained cordiality, maintaining such mutual indifference as they reasonably could while residing under the same roof. There was never a harsh word spoken between them, neither were there such sly barbs as Margaret had been astonished to find prevalent amongst the society of London, but their unspoken truce felt tenuous just the same.

Margaret might not be able to do anything to assuage her husband’s concerns, but surely this unresolved tension and trial upon her nerves was at least partially under her control, she decided as she greeted the older woman softly, taking her usual place at the table. Hannah offered a distant greeting in return, neither her face nor her voice betraying an ounce of the warmth that was so evident when she beheld her son.

Although it seemed the perfect opportunity to determine if she and Hannah might come to some sort of understanding, Margaret wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. Should she offer an oblique reference in the hopes her mother-in-law would discern her meaning without upsetting their fragile harmony, or should she tackle the subject head-on, unflinchingly meeting the older woman’s forthright nature in kind? As she debated how to proceed, the two women maintained such forced but civil conversation as could reasonably be expected for so early an hour. Margaret was just finishing her tea when Hannah pushed her empty plate aside with the same decisiveness that marked all her actions, and she knew the time had come to act.

Placing her own cup upon its saucer with calm determination, Margaret said, “I’m sure you’re eager to get to the mill, but I was hoping for a chance to speak with you, if you have a moment.”

This departure from the safety of their well-tread conversational pathways seemed to take her companion by surprise, as she remained in her seat. Margaret plunged ahead. “If I may speak plainly…I believe I know your opinion of me. I know you wish your son had married another. But as we’re to continue living – and working – together for the indefinite future, I think we’re going to have to come to terms with each other.”

If she’d feared that the older woman might be offended by her forthright manner, this concern was put to rest as the elder Mrs Thornton met this conversational sally unflinchingly, displaying on the slightest measure of surprise at its directness. “I’m not sure you do know how I feel about you, though it’s true, you’re not the woman I’d have chosen for my son,” she admitted. “But what’s done is done. At least you seem to have taken an interest in doing more at the mill than causing trouble, so that’s something. Was that John’s doing?”

Though she felt herself bristle slightly at the myriad of implications in that simple response, Margaret maintained her composure as she replied, “No, he didn’t need to ask. I wanted to help.”

The older woman nodded slightly, looking away, but there was a touch of begrudging respect in her voice when she repeated, “Well, like I said, at least you’re taking an interest.” With a slight grimace, she acknowledged, “And you make John happy. I’ve seen it. I’ll never understand why he was so taken with you when he could have had the pick of any woman in Milton. But you’re not as foolish as I once thought, I suppose, for all your pride and vanity.”

Her mother-in-law might be damning her with faint praise, but it was more than Margaret had expected to elicit from the other woman. “I think one might argue that I’m not alone in suffering from pride or vanity. And that these faults, such as they are, may not entirely be without cause.”

Hannah’s eyes widened slightly, her face coloring in indignation, and Margaret braced herself to receive a harsh set-down for this affrontery. To her surprise, however, the other woman paused, nodding slightly, an almost imperceptible smile touching the corners of her mouth as she conceded the point. “Very well,” she acknowledged. “Though I have cause for pride, with a son like mine.”

“And I, to have such a husband,” she replied, her tone leaving open no room for argument.

Her mother-in-law leaned back slightly at this, but her tone was as dry as ever as she stated, “There was a time when you did not feel the honor so keenly.”

John’s mother had once accused Margaret of failing to understand him, and she’d been right to do so. But Margaret felt it could also be said that there was a time when both Thorntons had failed to judge her intentions correctly, in turn. “It is true that I have not always understood the man I married. My pride – and my unfamiliarity with Milton ways – once blinded me to his honor, to his manner and temperament. Though I might suggest you have similarly misjudged me. I was hoping that, after all this time, we might come to an understanding with each other.”

“Perhaps,” Hannah agreed after a time, meeting Margaret’s forthright honesty with a touch of her own. “Since you’ve spoken plainly, I see no point in doing otherwise. I’ve hated you since the riot, when your fickle nature led you to reject my son after showing your feelings for all the world to see. For the sake of your mother, I promised to watch out for you and try to provide you whatever advice I could, not that I ever expected you to take it. I doubt your pride has ever allowed you to do anything you didn’t wish to do.”

Having so condemned her character, Hannah scowled and turned her face away. When she spoke again, her voice was resigned. “But my love for my son is stronger than any dislike I may feel for you. With this situation at the mill…I’m worried for him.” Margaret was taken aback by this confession. The elder Mrs. Thornton was not a woman to share her feelings – or her concerns – easily.

“Are things that desperate?” Margaret asked. Of course, from the hours her husband had been keeping and the lines that worry had etched upon his face, she knew that the situation was serious, but she’d had faith that John would see them through. For the first time, however, she began to wonder if it might be beyond even her husband’s ability to salvage.

“Not yet, but they will be soon, if things don’t improve. He’ll see me – _us_ – right, make no mistake about that. He always has. I’m not an easy woman to live with, I’m sure. I’m too decided in my opinions, and I’m not prone to displays of affection. But continue to stand by him, whatever happens, and you’ll hear no complaint from me.”

While hardly a ringing endorsement or indication of deeper sentiment, this small concession and slight softening of manner was perhaps the closest thing the two women had ever come to an understanding. “Whatever my failings, he’s my husband.” _And I love him_ , she almost said, stopping herself at the last moment. The first person to hear her utter those words should be John, not his mother. Instead, she promised, “I won’t abandon him, whatever misfortunes should befall us.”

* * *

John was working at the mill when he first heard something was amiss, and it was Nicholas who brought the matter to his attention. His mood had been irritable all day, his attention preoccupied by his increasingly strained financial situation, but Nicholas neither put too much stock in standing on ceremony nor found his employer’s moods to be particularly daunting.

The hard rap on the door first caught John’s attention, causing him to lift his head from the contract he’d been studying with a snarl, but a surly greeting died on his lips when he saw the other man’s face.

“It’s Margaret,” Nicholas said simply, lines of concern etching his face. “She needs you.”

He was on his feet and out the door before more could be said, leaving his coat behind in his haste to return to his wife’s side. Margaret needed him? Was she ill? Injured? Should he call a doctor?

He burst through his front door at a near run, stumbling to a halt when he saw his wife was not alone. Mr Bell was in her company, the sorrowful expression on his face a dire portend of the nature of the news he had come to relate. John’s entrance had attracted Margaret’s attention, and when she looked over at him, he could see her unhealthy pallor. When she spoke his name, her voice was faint. In an instant, he comprehended the nature of her distress.

“I’m here,” he reassured her, moving to her side and taking her hand in his. He spared a moment to give their visitor a nod, silently acknowledging the words that no longer needed to be spoken, and conveying his gratitude for the kindness of relating those words in person. The other man nodded in return and, undoubtedly fearing his presence would be an imposition on the couple, stood to leave. He murmured a few words of regret, promised to return to check on Margaret later, and took his leave, but John hardly noticed. His attention was on his wife, his mind turned to nothing other than what comfort he could provide her at this time.

“It’s – it’s my father,” she whispered, her face stricken. “He’s,” she paused and swallowed heavily, her breath catching in her throat, “he’s gone. Mr Bell said…in his sleep.”

He had felt the slight tremble in her hand when he’d taken it in his, but her gaze was distant and unfocused. Murmuring her name, he pulled her into his lap, letting her cheek rest against his chest, and pressed a kiss against the top of her head. “It’s all right. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

He waited for her tears to come, but she remained silent and still, her face betraying no emotion as she neither drew further into his embrace nor pulled away as he rocked her. In the privacy of his own mind, he silently berated himself for terrible ineptitude, feeling his own terrible experience with grief should have assisted him in finding the perfect words to offer the woman he loved solace and comfort, but no such words came. All he could do was hold her, reassuring her that she was not alone in her sorrow, reminding her that she was loved.

He was neither surprised nor wounded that she hardly seemed to notice his presence, lost in her thoughts as she was. However, his heart ached for her when, after a time, she finally spoke. “He should have been here,” she murmured, seeming to speak only to herself. “He should have had the chance to say goodbye.”

She must have been speaking of her father. John could think of no other possibility, although his sudden manner of death would have prevented Margaret from saying goodbye in any event, whatever his location. Still, he understood the illogic of grief, particularly when the wound was fresh, and so simply tightened his arms around her. “You couldn’t have known,” he attempted to reassure her.

She looked up at him, a slight from of confusion crossing her face, as though she had forgotten he was even there. “No,” she finally agreed, though her voice still sounded hollow. “But I should have been there. He shouldn’t have been alone.” There was a brief pause, and then she sucked in a ragged breath. “I should…I shouldn’t be sitting here. There are things I need to – letters I – my aunt should be notified. And Dixon! I don’t know if Mr Bell would think to – the house. There are things that must be done.”

Her speech was disjointed, scattered, as she pushed off his lap and struggled to his feet. “Margaret—” he began in faint protest, worried for her, but she shook her head and stepped back quickly when he reached for her.

“No, John. Please. There are things I-I need to do,” she stammered, her attention drifting around the room.

He understood. She was grasping the threads of normalcy to keep her feelings at bay. He had once attempted the same, but his familiarity with her motivation did nothing to undermine his concern for her. Try though she might to evade its reach, the grief at her loss would eventually catch up to her, washing over her, and he knew how overwhelming that moment could be.

For now, however, he could only offer, “Then let me go for Dixon. I’ll make sure she’s been told.”

Margaret nodded, the movement disjointed and spasmodic. Raising a hand to rub her forehead, she murmured, “Yes, of course. And something will need to be done about his books—”

“Not today,” he reassured her. When she appeared ready to protest, he said, “Nothing must be decided today.” Reaching for her once more, he cupped her shoulders in his palms and waited until she met his eyes before he spoke again. “Perhaps you should get some rest.” She looked pale, her features drawn, and he worried for her. “I’ll go to Dixon. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”

“No, I—” she began, before changing her mind just as quickly. “Yes, perhaps that would be best. I should write – but I need to lie down a while.”

She seemed unsteady, and so he offered her his arm to escort her upstairs. Once outside of their bedroom, however, she stalled and shook her head, looking toward the room that had once been intended as her bedchamber. “No, I was thinking…I’d like to sleep alone tonight.” Surprised by the request, he drew back slightly, even as she explained, “It’s not – I just need some time alone. I need to – there are letters I should write. Please.”

He hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain how to respond to her request. He knew how isolating it could be, to try to remain strong in the face of such sorrow. After hearing of his own father’s death, many years before, he had withdrawn from others for a time, wishing to hide his pain from the world and his fear from the family it was now his duty to support. His attempt at self-isolation might have caused more harm than good, had his mother not drawn him from his solitary reflection and offered him what comfort as her nature allowed. He did not want Margaret to similarly withdraw, but he also didn’t wish to press her. Solitude wasn’t necessarily an evil, and she was the only one to decide what would comfort her at this time.

In the end, he nodded, stifling his desire to draw her into his arms in light of her wish for solitude. “Very well,” she agreed slowly. “But if you need me—” He would ask Jane to set a chair by the door, where he could sleep for the night, so he would hear his wife if she were to call for him.

“I know,” she broke in, before he could finish the thought. Reaching for his hand, she pressed it between her own briefly, thanking him for his reassurance by offering him her own. “Thank you.”

He shook his head, wishing to be of use to her, more than he wished for her thanks. “If there’s anything you need, you have only to ask.” He would do anything for her. Anything at all.

* * *

In the privacy of her temporary bedchamber, Margaret seated herself at the abandoned escritoire and attempted to compose a letter to her brother. Though her mind was agitated, her thoughts jumbled, it seemed to her unlikely that anyone else would think to do so, and so the task fell to her.

 _My Dearest Frederick,_ she began, but found herself at a loss as to how to continue. How did one break such terrible news? She had no doubt as to how the missive would be received – not only was Frederick separated from her, possibly forever, but his exile from his homeland had deprived him of the last few years he might have spent with his loving parents.

They were the both of them alone in the world now. Well, that was a maudlin sentiment that lacked basis in fact, if she was being perfectly honest with herself. She had John. To a lesser (or at least less amicable) extent, she even had Fanny and Hannah. It was not that she was truly alone, merely that Frederick was her only remaining tie to the Margaret of her youth, to her idyllic childhood in her beloved Helstone. John had claims to her now, to the woman she had become, but only Frederick could speak to the willful, sentimental, headstrong child she had once been. (Of course, one might argue that she also had Edith to stand as a testament to her childhood, but her cousin was an unreliable witness at best, both her recollection and perception of those around her always tending more towards her personal convenience than reality.) Losing first her mother and now her father made her feel like she had lost a part of herself, and only Frederick served as a reminder that such a girl had ever existed.

She could not think of the words to convey the awful truth to her brother, not through the numbness that had clouded her senses and dulled her thoughts, from the moment she’d seen the gravity of Mr Bell’s countenance and anticipated the reason for his visit, and why he had come to her alone. This strange detachment from her feelings should have frightened her, she supposed, in its refusal to give any quarter. But it did not. It was perhaps the only thing helping her get through this terrible business, helping her to focus on the things that must be done.

With a sigh, she abandoned her attempt for the evening. For a moment, she was tempted to quit the room, as well, to return to the chamber she shared with her husband and sleep beside his side, but she rejected the notion as quickly as it had come upon her. With his concerns and the heavy weight of responsibilities he carried upon his shoulders, it would be selfish of her to increase his burdens with her own sorrow. Better to keep her distance and sleep apart than to impose upon him in such a manner.

And so, though a part of her longed to take refuge in her husband’s arms, she would not allow herself to turn to him for solace. She told herself that it was for the best, for both their sakes. She couldn’t risk the possibility that he would find his way through her awful numbness, bringing forth the grief that it currently held on bay. Part of her doubted she even deserved his comfort, though that sentiment was illogical. Still, whether or not she could claim any rationality to her sense of guilt, it existed all the same.

Would her father still be alive, had she not encouraged him to travel to Oxford? She had known better than anyone how hard he had taken her mother’s death. Had she not owed him more care and attention than she had been able to provide since her wedding? In laying claim to so much of John’s time, had she deprived her father of a friend as well as a beloved daughter, in his final days? Did he still believe – as he had once stated – that he had disappointed her? Had she done enough to assure him this wasn’t so?

Somewhere in her father’s house, there lay a book of poems that she had occasionally read to him in the evenings, when she was living under his roof and his mind had grown too full of philosophical and ecumenical teachings. She had left it behind when she’d prepared the trunks that would be taken to her new home, thinking that she might return to the practice, on some undetermined visit in the future. Now that book would forever remain unfinished, its spine unbroken, for she lacked the heart to peruse its pages in the absence of his company.

Still the tears did not come, as Margaret stretched out upon the bed, remaining atop the coverlet. She turned her face away from the unfinished letter that accused her with its emptiness, looking instead toward the door. Imagining her husband on the other side, she counted the breaths until she finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The days following Richard Hale’s death passed rapidly, with little to distinguish one from another. Dixon was notified of her employer’s death, and she undertook the process to close the house according to John’s instructions. His books were packed away, to be stored until Margaret could go through them and dispose of them appropriately.

Three days passed before Nicholas came to see her, to offer her his condolences and such assistance as he could provide. She thanked him with as much genuine emotion as she was able, her numbness having receded just enough to leave anger and bitterness at her loss in its wake. Still, there was one reason she was particularly glad to see him – a commission she did not yet feel capable of undertaking herself but dared not entrust to any other, as she felt unequal to the task of offering any explanation that might reasonably be expected of her.

It took several minutes for the two to get settled in the drawing room. Having offered his condolences, Nicholas attempted to turn the conversation to less distressing topics as the two awaited the servant with their tea. Once they were alone once more, Margaret pulled the letter from her pocket and held it out to him. “I wonder if you might do me a favor and post this for me. It’s important.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, her friend took it from her and tucked it away with little more than a glance at its direction. His voice was gentle and his eyes were kind when he asked, “A letter to your brother?”

She gasped. “You know of Frederick?”

He nodded. “Bessie told me about him. I hope you don’t mind. She meant no harm.”

“No, no, of course not,” she reassured him. He was the first person since Bessie’s death that she’d been able to speak to about the brother who lived so far away, her intentions to divulge his existence to her husband having fallen by the wayside for the time being. Simply being able to speak of him was a comfort. “What did she tell you?”

“Just that he had some sort of trouble with the law, and that it was him, what came to see your mother at the end.”

Margaret stared into her cup of tea. “Yes, that was Frederick. It all seems so long ago.” It seemed ages had passed since John had caught her wishing her brother goodbye at the train station. To think that night had set events in motion on an inalterable path that had brought about her marriage and opened her eyes to her true feelings for her husband. But now was not the time to reflect upon such matters.

Turning her thoughts back to her beloved brother, she explained, “He’s wanted for mutiny. His captain was insane, beating the men – and children – to within an inch of their lives. Frederick did what was necessary to stop him, but his name was printed in the newspaper with the rest of the mutineers. He risked his life, coming to Milton to say goodbye to our mother. It was wrong of me to ask him to come. If he ever returns home – if he’s caught – he’ll be hanged.”

As his daughter had, Nicholas attempted to console her. “He acted with honor. There must be some comfort in that.”

She scowled, turning her face away. She had once said she sometimes wished he had done differently, if it might mean her mother might see him one more time. Now, with the last of her family living an ocean away, forever separated by fear and an unjust law, she was consumed by resentment over his absence. “Honor is a cold comfort! I know I must reconcile myself to the reality of that nothing can be done. I tried to be strong for my father’s sake but how can I feel anything other than regret?” she demanded of him firmly, hearing the bitterness in her voice.

Though she expected him to look at her in reproach, there was compassion and understanding in his expression as he looked upon her in silence. But, then, he was no stranger to loss, having stood by Margaret’s side when he buried his beloved daughter. He knew better than some, how fierce yet fleeting the anger that came from grief could be. His understanding caused her shame, in a way that no accusation at this moment could have done. One day, when her grief had subsided, she would once again praise Frederick’s bravery in instigating the uprising that had undoubtedly saved many lives.

But perhaps it wasn’t his actions she regretted, so much as her own. She wanted nothing more than to have her cherished brother in her life once more. As foolish – and reckless – as it would have been for her to have asked him to stay, she couldn’t help but wish she’d never let him leave on that train. She only wished that circumstances hadn’t forced them to part. That he could have been there for her father, so that he didn’t die alone.

It was pointless to regret things that couldn’t be changed. Margaret had sent her brother to London, to meet with Henry, hoping he might be able to lend some assistance, but even she wasn’t so naïve as to believe such legal miracles could be obtained without a great deal of money – money that neither sibling had to spare. Certainly not at present, and possibly of so great a sum that it would always remain beyond their means.

No, Frederick would spend the rest of his days in Spain. He had found a new life. A new family. He was married now, having written to Margaret about his wife, Dolores. She wished she could have attended his nuptials, but of course it was impossible. She was had been as incapable of attending his wedding – or meeting his bride – as he had been of attending her own, or of being introduced to the man who would become her husband.

And yet… “I cannot help but wish things could be different,” she murmured, lost in her thoughts and her regret. “He’s married now.” He’d written to her about his wife, Dolores. Margaret could hardly have claimed shock at the announcement, after hearing him sing her praises more than once during his brief visit to Milton. Still, it was hard to reconcile her memories of the careless youth she’d once known – all teasing good humor and restless spirit – with the mature man his letters and their brief reunion had painted of him.

Their forced separation meant that she would never truly get to know the person he had become; she would never have an opportunity to see how marriage would change him, any more than he would see how love had changed her. Should either union be blessed with children, it was unlikely their progeny would ever meet or be bound by the affection that should be natural between the two families. It was with genuine sorrow that she remarked, “I couldn’t even attend his wedding.”

From the image he painted with his words, Margaret thought she would have liked to meet Dolores. More, she wished Frederick and John could have met. She wondered what they would make of each other. Would Southern sensibilities and Northern pride have acted as an impediment, as they had once nearly prevented Margaret and John understanding one another? Or would the two men she loved have recognized in each other a similar sense of honor, of duty, and of strength of purpose?

She would likely never know.

* * *

In the hall, John leaned against the wall, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Jane had told him that Nicholas had come to call on Margaret, and he’d wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to see her. He was worried for her, having felt the distance between them from the day she’d learned of Richard’s death. When he’d heard the low murmur of voices inside, he hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t help but overhear.

 _“Honor is a cold comfort! I know I must reconcile myself to the reality of that nothing can be done.”_ It had been the bitterness in her voice, the sound unfamiliar to him, that had caught his attention, more than her words. He assumed she was speaking of her father, until she continued, _“I tried to be strong for my father’s sake but how can I feel anything other than regret? I cannot help but wish things could be different.”_

He had stilled at those words, wondering what could be the nature of her regret, but he was not left to speculate for long. _“He’s married now. I couldn’t even attend his wedding.”_ She was speaking of _him_. Of the man at the train station. He had long since realized that the two had not been lovers in the sense he had once assumed, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still hold her heart.

In fact, while he’d perhaps chosen not to think of it, hoping he could provide such happiness for her in marriage that might inspire her to return his devotion, he had never been so foolish as to believe her heart belonged to him. Indeed, he’d known it did not. Would not. Hadn’t she told him as much?

_“I do not love you. I never have. I never will.”_

_“Rest assured that I need no additional time to examine my feelings for him. I do love him – very much.”_

_“I do love him.”_

Nothing had changed. It was as he had always known. He had no cause to feel either betrayal or heartbreak. She deserved no reproach, having never lied to him about her feelings or broken any promise. She had vowed to him fidelity, not love. He had accepted her hand, knowing that he had no possible claim to her love.

John stepped away from the doorway without making either party aware of his presence, returning to the mill without a word. He’d felt the distance between them of late and had assumed that it stemmed from her bereavement. It had never occurred to him that her grief would bring with it the sting of remorse for a love she had lost and a marriage she had come to regret.

He had known his situation was hopeless, and it would be imprudent to wish for her love, but he felt the sting of disappointment now and realized that his heart had disregarded reason in nurturing such a desire, regardless. Cursing himself for a fool, he stormed through the mill, barely noticing his workers as they scrambled to get out of his way, finally taking refuge in his office. Slamming the door behind him, he braced his palms upon his desk, bowing his head as he sucked in a deep breath and attempted to regain his composure.

In his heart, he knew what he must do, though he wasn’t sure he had the strength for it. Mr Bell, his landlord and her godfather, had left for London the day before, but not before suggesting that Margaret might accompany him on the trip, wishing she might escape the place that had brought her such sorrow. At the time, John had declined the offer, thinking that Margaret’s pain was too fresh for such a journey, and hoping that his company might bring her some measure of solace. Now, however, he realized that he had done her a disservice, forcing her to remain by his side when it seemed likely that she would have preferred to go.

Muttering a curse, John swept the contracts that littered his desk aside, searching for a blank sheet of paper with which to send a note to Mr Bell. Upon locating one suitable for his purpose, he lowered his body into his chair and attempted to compose the words, but mere seconds passed before he was on his feet again, almost tearing the paper when he tossed it aside, overcome by a turmoil of emotion as he paced back and forth across his office floor.

That she didn’t love him, he well knew, as surely as he knew he would always love her. The only question remained, did he love her enough? Did he love her enough to let her go, knowing such separation would bring her happiness, even though it would cost him his own?

Mr Bell had proposed a journey of uncertain duration, but John had no doubt his preference would be for a prolonged separation. The exchange the two men had shared at Maria Hale’s funeral left John in no doubt that her godfather had not welcomed the news of their union, feeling John was beneath her. Once he deposited her safely with her family in London, Bell would undoubtedly encourage her to remain there indefinitely, and as John was no longer in a position to offer her either the comfort or the contentment he had once hoped their marriage would afford, he would be hard pressed not to agree.

It was not the way things were done in Milton, but he knew that it was not unheard of for members of London Society to live separate lives, coming together only as necessary to produce the occasional heir. He had never imagined such a future for himself. Did he love Margaret enough to do this for her? To honor her heart, even at the expense of his own, with the understanding that through his sacrifice, he would be condemning himself to a life of abject misery and loneliness? Could he withstand the pain, if it meant she would be happy and not burdened by the disappointment of his failures or the regret she tried so hard to hide?

Yes. There was no question of it. If he loved her less, he might need to wrestle with the question longer, though the repercussions of his decision would be lessened. As it was, however, the answer came easily, though the consequences would be forever his alone to bear.

He loved her enough to sacrifice his heart. His honor. His very life. He would let her go.


	12. Chapter 12

John Thornton was not a man prone to vacillation or prevarication, once he had reached a decision. Indeed, his experience indicated that no unpalatable task had ever become more agreeable through the passage of time and procrastination, and so he tended to tackle the most unpleasant of assignments all the quicker, to have them over and done with once and for all. To go back upon a decision, made only upon due contemplation and deliberation, after all the facts were obtained and considered with the gravity each deserved, would be an indignity, an act of dishonor. And for John, the binds of honor, the demands of duty and responsibility, were not theoretical concepts but concrete mandates, which had formed and shamed him into the man he was today. Personal preference and selfish desire didn’t merely take a distant second to the demands of his duty to ensure the happiness and well-being of those around him; they had no bearing upon the matter at all.

And yet, over a month passed, and he could not bring himself to compose the letter that would break his heart, which would separate him from his wife, possibly forever. His attempts to console himself for his action only brought him further frustration, darkening his mood and instilling in him an irascible temperament, prone to snapping at any who drew near. Even his mother, who normally could be assured of safe harbor from even his darkest of moods, had nearly been the recipient of a sharp word or two, had he not bitten them back in the nick of time. Only Margaret was certain to avoid his irritability, as his ill temper did not overcome his concern for her in her grief, or his desire to buffer her from greater unhappiness. With her, he remained gentle, seeking refuge in work when finding himself with uncertain temperament, rather than risk imposing upon her with his foul mood.

He was standing above the mill floor, overseeing the work in progress, when his mother entered the workroom. To his surprise, she didn’t begin her inspection of workers and machines, as was her usual custom. Instead, she tilted her head back to gaze upon him, her jaw set in a stubborn line. She stood still, waiting for him, and he masked his grimace as he headed to the stairs to join her. As was too often the case as of late, he had been disagreeable at breakfast, glowering at his plate and speaking little, and he was certain that her patience was at an end.

He moved to her side, and the two walked in silence to office, so as not to be overheard by the workers. As the door closed behind them, he expected her to take him to task for his behavior, but she remained silent, her gaze expectant. Moving behind his desk, he wasted no time on pleasantries. “I’m sorry, Mother. I know I’ve had a foul temper lately. I’ve no right to take it out on others.”

“Is it the bank loan?” she asked, sounding concerned, rather than accusatory.

He shook his head. Looking away, he explained, “Before he left, Bell suggested he take Margaret to London, to take her mind off her grief. I’ve decided to accept his offer.” He didn’t mention that this determination had been undermined by his inability to put such acceptance into words. Instead, he waited for his mother’s response, certain that she would express unequivocal agreement with this course of action.

To his astonishment, however, his mother said nothing, prompting him to look at her once more. In a quiet voice, she asked, “How long do you intend for her to be away?”

He sucked in a deep breath. “Indefinitely.” Only the slightest quirk of her eyebrows betrayed her reaction to this revelation. “I thought you would be overjoyed at this news. I know you disapprove of her.” She glanced away with a scowl, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ve disappointed you,” he remarked in mild surprise, having never drawn his mother’s disfavor before.

Her eyes darted back to his, and she stepped around the desk, reaching for him. As he sank into his chair, she cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Never,” she swore fiercely. “No mother has more cause for pride than I. But all your life, you have looked after others. The workers. Fanny. And don’t think I don’t see all that you’ve done for me. Your bride is the first thing you’ve ever truly wanted for yourself alone, and now you intend to send her away?”

“She doesn’t love me!” he protested miserably. “How can I demand she remain, when I know it will only bring her misery?”

“How is she to realize her love for you from London?” she argued, holding him in place when he would have drawn away. As though the words were torn from her chest, relinquished only with reluctance, she continued, “Margaret is proud. And vain. And I cannot pretend to love her for it.” There was the slightest moment of hesitation before she acknowledged in a dry tone, “But she is not alone in either, and she has as much right to both as any Thornton, I suppose. Sometimes pride makes it hard to recognize love, even when it’s truly felt.”

At this, he did pull away, yanking out of her grasp as he stood and stepped past her, not wanting to hear her words when he could not believe in them. She, however, refused to relinquish the point. “She cares for you, John. Whether or not either of you see it.”

He stormed to the other side of the room, keeping his back to his mother so she wouldn’t see the pain on his face. “Believe me when I say that isn’t true,” he snapped. “And I won’t keep her here against her will, when her heart would wish her elsewhere!”

“She agreed to marry you, to build a life here in Milton, and she’s never been one to do anything she didn’t wish to do. Do you trust her judgment so little, to think she’d be happier to be sent away?” He froze, the words tearing at him. He hadn’t asked her, having overheard enough to know of her regret. Was his mother right? Was there a chance Margaret would prefer to remain in Milton, for all the pain that it had brought her? As though recognizing his indecision, his mother urged him, “You mustn’t send her away. It won’t make either of you happy.”

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice when she slipped out of his office to return to her duties on the mill floor. Instead, he remained where he was, cast into self-doubt by his mother’s words, uncertain that his present course of action was the right one.

He was still in his office a short time later, when there was a light knock on the door. He lifted his head from his musings just as it swung open and rose to his feet when Margaret stepped inside, a mug in her hand. “I don’t mean to intrude,” she told him in greeting, with a soft, uncertain smile. “I was down to see Mary in the kitchens and thought you might be thirsty.” He made no move to reach for the mug, and so she admitted, “That was my excuse, at any rate. If you want to know the truth, I just wanted to see you.”

As he often did in her presence, he felt himself slip into a more agreeable frame of mind. Tilting his head to the side, he chided her gently, “You need no excuse to come see me, Margaret.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed with a relieved smile, stepping toward him. “But you’ve been working so hard, I didn’t want to intrude.”

“I haven’t meant to neglect you,” he offered in apology, longing to draw her into his arms but not allowing himself the pleasure. He was still painfully conscious of her grief and his intentions, which left him uncertain of his reception. His mother’s words haunted him, daring him to broach the subject of Margaret’s departure. Knowing it likely that she would be excited at the prospect of leaving Milton. And him.

She shook her head, her eyes contemplative as he stepped around his desk to relieve her of the mug she carried. “You’ve been preoccupied, worried about more than the state of the mill.” When he looked at her in surprise, she explained, “You’re my husband now. I think I’m coming to understand you a little, at least.” She paused and then added, “I was hoping you would talk to me.”

He nodded slowly, recognizing the fruitlessness of evasion, even if it wasn’t against his nature to make the attempt. Unable to look at her as he continued, he busied himself by moving some papers aside on his desk to make room for the mug she had brought him. “It’s true, I’ve had a great deal on my mind,” he began. “This business at the mill is taking up much of my time. I’ve been wondering if you might not prefer to be in London.”

“Oh!” Her soft cry of surprise and consternation compelled his attention once more, though she looked away from him under the weight of his regard. Choosing her words with great deliberation, she replied, “I suppose…if you think it best…I would like to see my cousin again. I could write to her today. How long of a visit should I suggest?”

When he didn’t reply immediately, she returned her gaze to his. “Oh,” she breathed again, as a dawning comprehension overtook her features. “I didn’t – you weren’t suggesting a visit. You intend to send me away.” He winced as the words hit her mark, unable to argue against the truth of them, even though the starkness of her statement was more terrible than the idea had sounded in his mind.

Afraid she might misunderstand, he tried to explain, “Milton has brought you little joy. I thought you might be happier in London than you’ve been here.”

Her temper rising, she crossed her arms across her chest, her face flushed with emotion. “Is your suggestion meant to ensure my happiness or your own?” Before he could reply, she continued, “I knew my mind when I took you for a husband. I thought we understood each other! I didn’t realize that you thought you were buying a bride you could send away the moment she became inconvenient for you!”

It was not the first time she had accused him of mercenary intent, and he felt his hands shake as he stalked toward her. “You say you thought we understood each other, but you still think so little of me, that I can only think of buying and selling because I’m in trade!” he spat.

Unlike so many others, his Margaret did not recoil from his fit of temper. Then again, she never had, neither flinching nor backing away as she demanded, “What else am I to think, when you’re so willing to send me away like some – some _bale of cotton_ that has displeased you?” She pressed forward, offering him no mercy. “I wondered if honor might not be a sufficient comfort, and you might not come to regret your proposal one day. I didn’t realize it would happen so soon!”

Her words tore through him, flaming his anger with the injustice in her accusation. Straightening, he looked down his nose at her as he growled, “You’re mistaken. I’m not the one who regrets our marriage, Margaret. It isn’t _my_ desire I seek to satisfy in sending you to London but your own.”

Her countenance, once flushed with her ire, rearranged into an expression of irritable confusion. “I don’t know what you mean. I have no—”

He was ready to explain about the conversation he had overheard, until a knock at the door interrupted them. Clutching his hands into fists at his side, he spun to face the offending intruder, barking a loud, “Enter!”

The door opened to reveal Nicholas Higgins on the other side, his expression calm and placid, although he must have heard the raised voices from his position in the hall. “Beggin’ your pardon, but there’s a problem with one of the machines.”

“I’ll be there shortly—” John began, but Margaret, her color still high with the force of her emotion, spoke over him.

“No, it’s all right. I’ll go. You have work, and I’d hate to _inconvenience_ the Master of Marlborough Mills.”

Nicholas quirked an eyebrow slightly at this parting shot, but his face betrayed no other thoughts as she stormed past him, striding quickly into the hall. As her skirt disappeared around the corner and the rapid sound of her footfalls faded, John picked up the mug she’d brought him and hurled it against the wall, feeling no satisfaction when it landed with a loud crack and tumbled to the ground, spilling its contents upon the floor. It was perhaps possible that he could have handled that entire situation worse than he had, but he couldn’t at present imagine how.

* * *

Several hours later, he returned to the house, physically exhausted from his strenuous day, and emotionally spent from his earlier argument with his wife. With an early appointment looming in the morning, he knew he should hurry to bed, to catch what sleep he may. However, he found himself lingering downstairs, seeking consolation in the bottom of a glass of stronger spirits than he usually indulged. He barely tasted the first glass of the amber liquid as he tossed it back in a single swallow before pouring himself another, this time intending to savor the fiery liquid.

With a fierce yank, he untied his cravat, leaving the rumpled fabric looped around his neck as he shrugged out of his coat, tossing it aside. Then, rolling up his sleeves, he paced before the fire, his thoughts giving him no peace. Bracing one hand upon the mantle, he bowed his head, taking another sip of his drink as he stared at the dying embers with sightless eyes.

He remained that way for he knew not how long, until sound behind him that drew his attention. He knew what he would find before he even turned, finding to find Margaret in the doorway. Her feet were bare, toes curling into the carpet, her night-rail providing scant protection from the cool night air. Seeing her shiver, he reached for the coat he’d discarded on the back of a chair and stepped forward to wrap it around her shoulders before stepping back to give her space. “I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said, the words sounding inane, even to his own ears.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied in a soft voice. “I was waiting for you.”

“Forgive me. I meant to return sooner.” He didn’t know how to reach her, how to breach this great divide that had grown between them. A divide of his own making, he feared.

She rocked back and forth on her heels, but she didn’t approach, pulling the folds of his coat tightly around her body. “Do you truly wish to send me away, John?” Unable to answer, he turned away. “Will we never come to understand each other?”

They never would, until they could find the strength and courage that honesty required. There were so many things left unsaid between them. Perhaps it was time for him to set aside his pride and bring those secrets into the light. What had he to lose? He could not fear her hatred, when he had never had her love. “No. I don’t wish you to leave,” he admitted. “I could never truly wish for that.”

He heard her move closer, felt the gentle pressure of her hand upon his arm, but he did not turn. He didn’t want her to see his shame. “Then why are you sending me away?”

“The mill will likely close soon. We’ll lose this house. I made you a promise, when you agreed to be my wife, and I didn’t want you to see how I’ve failed you.”

She let out a sharp cry, increasing the pressure of her hand until he turned toward her, although his face remained averted. She reached to touch him, moving closer when he flinched away. “You haven’t failed me. Do you think I haven’t seen how you’ve tried to care for your workers? How hard you’ve tried? Whatever happens with the mill, you’re a good man, John Thornton. I didn’t see that when I first came to this place, but I do now. I’m proud to have you as my husband. Don’t you see that?”

He didn’t see, but he wanted to believe it. She was kind, as she had been so often to those around her, and he wanted to throw himself upon her mercy, to beg her to pretend to feel what she had once sworn she could not. To offer him the kindness of a lie, and let him believe that he might one day win her heart.

He wanted to tell her that he knew he had been a fool, pushing her away time after time, even as he wished for nothing more than to hold her close. No one had it in their power to hurt him as she did. For her good opinion, he would face rioters, intent upon his destruction. He loved her as he had never loved another, and yet he created distance between them, in a vain attempt to protect a heart that was no longer his alone.

He should reassure her of his faith in her, which he had once sworn had been lost. There was nothing for which he could deride her – save, perhaps, for choosing him when she deserved so much better than the life he could offer her. She deserved to be cossetted and protected, to live a life of comfort and joy, unmarred by deprivation and want. For her skin to be caressed by hands that had never seen a day’s work, their touch soft and gentle.

John’s hands were rough. He was hard, coarse. He had struggled as a child and would struggle again, once the mill had closed and his family was left in dire straits as they had been so many years before. He couldn’t indulge Margaret as she deserved; he couldn’t promise her a future without care. It wouldn’t be long before the bank loan came due and he lost the comfortable home he had spent a lifetime building for his family. He would find himself cast down from his position of Master of the Mills to the bottom, to claw and scrape and grab for the lowest rung of the ladder, intending to scale it rung by rung in the hopes he might one day find himself at the top once more. Meanwhile, Margaret would be left with nothing but calloused hands from hard work that her gentle upbringing had never prepared her to undertake, and with the necessity to scrimp and fret from one meal to the next.

He should tell her that he believed in her – in her kindness and her compassion. In her integrity and faithfulness. She had never taken a lover before him, but he hoped that she had once loved another, though the idea pained him – to know, even for a short while, what it felt like to bask in the adoration of one more deserving of her than he. Although John would swear that nobody in the world could love her as he loved her; nobody else could cherish either her heart or her spirit as he did.

There were many things that he should say, now that he had sworn to lay himself bare before her, but the words swelled in his chest, jumbling together on his tongue until they tangled and knotted, and he didn’t know which thread to pull at to set them free. There was only her name, a benediction upon his lips. “Margaret.” He grabbed her hand, drawing her near, missing the warmth and the feel of her, his mouth hot against hers as he wrapped her in his arms.

As it often tended to do, he was surprised by her passion, by the readiness with which she reached for him. His coat fell to the floor, forgotten, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body flush against this own. She whispered his name as he lifted her, her night-rail falling open, her shift hitching around her waist as she wrapped her legs around his hips.

He should carry her upstairs, to the privacy of their bedchamber. They could be interrupted at any time, caught by a servant in search of something to eat in the middle of the night, or finishing up on a task left undone. But he had not held his wife like this for far too long, and the taste of her lips and scent of her skin was intoxicating, filling his senses and driving away all reason. Reaching out one hand, he stumbled forward until his palm struck the wall, her body making a loud thud that shook the painting on the wall as it followed.

He began to apologize, but she laughed, finding delight in their passion, her hands grabbing at his shirt, his shoulders, his hair. Her lips chasing after his kiss as she tossed his discarded cravat aside. “We should stop,” he breathed, even as he pressed his lips against the curve of her neck. “The servants—”

But Margaret wasn’t in the mood to be agreeable, and she taunted him with a roll of her hips, rather than acquiesce to his suggestion. He groaned when he felt her against him, even through the fabric of his trousers, and she threw her head back, exposing soft, smooth skin to the dim light cast by the dying embers in the fireplace and the moonlight spilling through the windows. Bowing his head, he caressed her breast his mouth, wetting the fabric with his tongue as he drew the nipple between his teeth.

“The servants—” he tried once more, his voice muffled by fabric and skin, but she slipped her hand beneath his shirt, caressing the muscles of his chest, and shook her head at his protest.

“Everyone’s asleep,” she reassured him. “Don’t stop. I need you. I-I’ve missed you.”

In the darkness and with their haste, their movements were clumsy and awkward as he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, pulling himself free. Sliding one hand between her thighs, he could feel that she was wet and ready for him, her breath coming in tight gasps as he slid two fingers inside of her, teasing her sensitive nub with his thumb.

Tomorrow, he would chastise himself for taking her so roughly against their drawing room wall, his need for her overwhelming all sense and the fear of discovery. Rather than making love to her with sweet words in a soft bed, as gentle ladies such as she had been raised to expect. But she would offer him no similar recriminations, to be sure, her exultant cries muffled by his lips and cheek, the only thing preventing them from echoing through the empty room.

Questing fingers swept into his hair, brushing it back from his face, and he reached for her hand, pinning it against the wall beside her head. She demanded nothing from him this night, but there was one thing he needed from her, his longing so deep that his heart ached with it.

“Tell me you love me,” he growled, demanding and pleading in equal measure. “Just for tonight, let me pretend.”

Her laughter died on her lips, her eyes growing wide, and he feared for a moment that he had spoiled the mood, that she would balk and push him away. He was gratified when she whispered, “I do love you.” It was a lie, but she was kind, and he was willing to let himself pretend to believe it, and so he let out a long sigh, his eyes closing as the joy of those four words washed over him.

Beneath him, Margaret squirmed, her movements growing more insistent, even frantic, as she clutched at his shoulders, his neck, his face. “John, please! I love you! I do! You must believe me!”

A groan rumbled through his chest as though torn from his very soul, and he pressed his face against the curve of her neck, savoring the weight of her words and her willingness to utter such a lie for his sake. _She was kind, and he was willing to let himself believe._

“Look at me,” she begged him, her voice catching as he thrust inside her. “Look at me!” But he could not – _dared_ not – in case he saw the truth of her feelings in her face. Instead, he crushed his lips against hers, swallowing her soft sounds of desire as he slid his hand between her thighs and stroked her until she came undone in his arms.

Her pleasure was still washing over her when he thrust into her again, rocking her body against the wall behind her. “Tell me you love me,” he demanded once more in a low voice, his lips against her ear, the strength of his need deepening his voice and the harsh, Northern burr of his accent. She shook her head, her breath escaping in a soft sob, but he increased the pace of his thrusts as he repeated his demand. “Please.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck pressing his cheek against hers as he drove into her again. A moment later, he felt a cool dampness against his skin and was surprised to realize it had come from her, a tear spilling over her lashes and sliding down the gentle curve of his face until it became trapped between them. It was almost enough to compel him to stop and draw away, except she tightened her legs around his hips and would not release him.

“I love you,” she whispered into his ear, driving him on.

He savored those words, committing them to his heart, a treasured memory that could never be taken from him, not even with the truth in the harsh light of day. Wrapping his hands under her thighs, he repositioned her, steadying her weight as he drove into her again and again until his own pleasure washed over him.

He pressed his mouth against the curve of her shoulder as he poured himself into her, feeling his muscles tremble with the strength of his release. Only when he was spent, his senses slowly returning, did he put her back on her feet, turning his head to capture her mouth in a kiss, swallowing the lie she had graciously bestowed upon him.

She deserved to hear the truth, although she must know it by now already, given his shameless request. “I love you, Margaret,” he breathed against her lips. “I have never loved another.”


	13. Chapter 13

“You love me?” Margaret’s question was so soft, it barely broke the quiet stillness of the evening air. John turned his head just far enough to see her press the tips of her first three fingers against her lower lip. He withdrew from her arms, turning his attention to gathering the articles of clothing that had been cast aside in their haste and their passion. As he searched, he wondered if he should pretend he hadn’t heard her gentle query. If he failed to respond, perhaps she wouldn’t press the issue. Perhaps they could continue on as they had begun, with him holding his love for her deep in his heart.

But as he scanned the room for evidence of their lovemaking, his eyes fell upon the spot where he had once knelt, confessing his heartbreak to his mother, mourning the knowledge that his love was not and never would be returned. Perhaps he and Margaret could continue on in the same fashion, but the truth was, he was tired. He was tired of hiding his love for her, and perhaps she deserved to know of it, even if she could never return the sentiment.

With a weariness that went deeper than bone and muscle and sinew and into his very soul, he heaved a heavy sigh. His shoulders slumped forward, sagging under a weight they had carried in secret for too long, as he pushed his hair off his forehead with one hand. He lacked the energy to raise his head, as he murmured one simple word in the affirmative in reply. It hardly seemed sufficient; that single syllable inequal to the task of capturing the depth of his feeling or extent of his devotion, so he decided to elaborate. “I know you believe me incapable of such tender sentiment, but I asked you to marry you because I love you.”

Margaret flinched at his words, although they had been offered as a statement of fact, devoid of either rancor or admonition. Still, she did not look away, meeting his gaze boldly as she began, “What you asked of me—”

John had always considered himself a brave man, but perhaps he lacked his wife’s courage because he didn’t think he could bear to hear her finish that thought. He knew her words had been a lie, and he should have anticipated her likely fear that he would demand that she return his affection. His earlier request might have led her to misunderstand, to not realize that although he couldn’t pretend he didn’t _long_ for her love, he could never be so foolish as to _expect_ it.

“A passing indulgence,” he broke in. “It won’t happen again.” It was a warning to himself as well as a promise to her.

“John—”

There was the soft creak as a board settled nearby, but it was similar enough to a footstep in the hall to make him recollect himself. Gathering his belongings in one hand, he clasped her to him with the other. “We don’t want to be caught by the servants,” he murmured in an undertone. She nodded, tucking herself against his side as they navigated the stairwell to their bedroom.

John wasn’t so foolish as to believe that the subject of his ill-considered request of her was past, but he occupied himself by tidying his things away in an effort to forestall the inevitable. Behind him, Margaret closed the bedroom door, the latch sliding into place unnaturally loud in their silent bedroom. He heard the rustle of her nightdress rustle as she rested her weight against the closed door, and he could swear he felt her eyes boring into him as he kept his back to her. She remained silent, a quick glance at her face revealing her to be in deep contemplation. However, she stepped forward when he lowered himself in a chair to remove his boots.

When she finally spoke, her tone lacked any trace of anger or malice, and she sounded as weary as he felt. “There have been so many secrets between us, haven’t there, John? So many misunderstandings.”

His first inclination was to argue the point – or at least defend himself against her charge – but he found he could not. She only spoke the truth. Dropping his boot to the floor with a soft thud, he lifted his hand to his face, passing it slowly across his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted finally, his voice grave. His hands fell against the chair’s armrests as he sagged against its worn upholstery. “I should have told you the truth sooner,” he conceded with a sigh, “but I didn’t want to burden you with my feelings.” He had to swallow heavily to keep his voice level as he continued, “My request this evening was unconscionable, but you have no cause to fear my misunderstanding. You told me before we wed that you would never care for me. I have no expectations otherwise.”

With his head tilted against the chair’s back, he watched as confusion flickered across his wife’s features. To his surprise, he realized that she had forgotten the incident in question, and he marveled that she could have done so since her words had been seared into his memory ever since. Allowing his eyes to drift shut, he repeated her words in a low murmur, his Northern burr deepened by the emotion caused by such a painful recollection, _“I do not love you. I never have. I never will.”_

He heard Margaret make a soft sound of dismay in the back of her throat in response. When she moved toward him, her steps were steady, but he felt her tremble when she placed her hand upon his knee as she knelt by his side. “And so you will never believe me when I say that I love you.”

Her words were spoken as a statement of fact, but he heard the question in them nevertheless. He could hear her distress, and he forced his exhaustion aside as he opened his eyes once more, resting his hand upon hers in an attempt at reassurance. “I have always known you would never consider for the likes of me if you had a choice. A better man might regret the actions that forced you to accept my hand, but I cannot.”

“They were my decisions, too,” she protested softly, her voice as gentle as the rest of her. “I came to your office in the middle of the night. I stole a kiss in the hall. I _chose_ to stay, when I knew what it would mean. It was unjust of me to say those things to you. I was angry and frightened, afraid that I was forcing you into a marriage of obligation.”

Her grey eyes swept over his face as though she was searching for something, though he didn’t know what that would be. With a soft sigh, she rose and paced a few steps away, her head bowed in contemplation. When she spun on her heel to face him once more, however, her jaw was set at a determined angle, her gaze unflinching. “John, it’s time I explained something to you. About Frederick.”

John didn’t need her to explain who she meant as he straightened abruptly in his chair. “You owe me no explanation. Whatever feelings you may have for him, I know my accusations against you were unjust. I shouldn’t have—”

She disregarded his reassurance, moving toward the bed. Lowering herself onto the mattress, she folded her hands in her lap and regarded him with a grave expression. “Frederick – Fred – is my brother,” she explained, speaking over his protestations.

He fell silent; whatever he might have expected, it hadn’t been that. “Your brother?” he repeated after a moment, his voice hollow as he tried to make sense of her meaning. “Richard didn’t – You never mentioned a brother.”

“We don’t talk about him,” she admitted in tones both soft and sad. Her voice was filled with regret as she shared the story of the mutiny he had instigated when faced with his captain’s cruelty and madness. She told him of the lives he had saved, as well as the consequences he would face if he was ever caught and brought before a judge. He would be hanged, and she had known it when she’d begged for him to race to his dying mother’s side.

She had feared discovery of a fugitive – not a lover – when she’d refused to allow John entry into the house when he’d come to call during her mother’s decline. And it had been that fear that had compelled her to hold her tongue rather than divulge the truth, when he’d caught her wishing her brother goodbye at the train station. It wasn’t until Fred was safely out of England that she’d felt free to speak of him, but by then, John’s anger and disdain had inflicted too grievous of a wound upon her pride for her to ignore.

John listened to her story in silence, trying to make sense of her words. Her story sounded incredible, almost impossible to believe, but he _did_ believe her. Without doubt or reservation. “You have a brother,” he said in a low voice as the pieces fell into place in his mind. Her righteous indignation at his lack of faith in her. Her avowal that the scene on the train platform had had not been as they it had seemed. “You have a _brother_ ,” he repeated once more in astonishment. When he had the presence of mind to do so, he lifted his gaze to hers once more. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I couldn’t, until I was sure he was safely out of the country. Not without risking his life. Once I knew he was safe, I was too angry to tell you the truth. I was hurt. I wanted you to have faith in me. Not because you knew that Fred was my brother, but because you believed in _me_.”

“I’m sorry. I should never have doubted you. I should have told you sooner that I knew you didn’t deserve my accusations. I trust your character—”

“But not my heart,” she interjected. “I didn’t realize it until this evening, but it isn’t my honor that you question, is it? It’s my love for you.” It was easier for him to believe in her kindness than in her words, and so he withdrew his gaze, turning his face away. Undeterred, she continued, “Just as I have been afraid to trust in your love for me.”

Suddenly filled with restless energy, John hastily took to his feet, stripping off his shirt and tossing it aside as he prepared for bed. He was too overwhelmed with emotion, unable to speak through the heavy weight in his chest and the thickness in his throat. As he bent to splash water across his face, he caught a glimpse of Margaret in the mirror. Bracing his hands on either side of the wash bowl, eyes locked on hers in the reflected surface, he watched as his wife stepped toward him.

Placing her hand over one of his, she curved her fingers under his palm and lifted, bringing his hand to her mouth to press a soft kiss against his knuckles, lightly brushing them against her lips, one after the other. She waited until he turned his face toward her, and then she murmured, “When I said those horrible things to you, I was too scared to know my own mind. Or my heart. I’m not afraid any longer.”

“Aren’t you?” he asked, straightening until he towered over her.

She seemed undaunted. Instead, she threw him a small, wistful smile. “No. Are you?”

 _Yes. He was._ And incapable of admitting as much, he feared. But she didn’t wait for him to find the words, giving the hand she held a slight tug. “You’re tired. Come to bed.”

He followed without protest, completing his preparations in silence as Margaret extinguished the lights. He finally slid under the covers with a sigh, wrapping one arm around his wife to draw her closer while she pressed her head against his shoulder. As his eyes drifted shut, he stroked her hair, letting its silky strands slip between his fingers until he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Margaret awoke in the morning to the sound of John’s heart beating steadily beneath her ear. Her head was tucked against his chest, the coarse hair that grew there tickling her nose enough to make her smile but not sufficient to cause her to pull away. Her thoughts still hazy, clouded by sleep, and reluctant to leave the dreams that had warmed her throughout the evening hours, she shifted closer to him. With a soft sigh of contentment, she let her toes glide along the bare line of his calf.

With her head still resting upon his chest, she heard him make a soft sound, the gentle catch of his breathing, but it fell once more into a steady rhythm that betrayed his slumber. A moment before, she might have thought she wished him to wake, to see the warmth in his blue eyes when he looked upon her and feel the touch of his hand. Now, however, she discovered a reluctance to disturb him.

Moving slowly so as not to interrupt his rest, she tilted her head back, letting her gaze rose his features. He had always been beautiful, though he would never believe it of himself – even if she ever gained the courage to describe him in such terms. But in his waking hours, his features were harsh, even stark. An external reflection of his strictly imposed internal reserve and self-control.

Slumber softened the lines of his face, lending them a vulnerability he would never willingly show. Unable to resist, she reached out with trembling fingers, tracing the curve of his brow, drawing down the line of his cheek, along the soft swoop of his lower lip. Her finger stalled when she saw his eyes flutter open, and she waited to see the wall he erected against the world to fall into place. But his features remained soft, his eyes warm and slightly unfocused, and she felt his breath caress her fingertips as he whispered her name. “Margaret.”

He had not believed her before, and perhaps he would not believe her now. But she had to try. Throwing his leg across her his hips, she rose above him, bracing her hands upon his chest. He was watching her, his gaze so intent and penetrating that she thought it might see right through her. With her hair tumbling over her shoulders, she leaned down and pressed her lips against his, the caress as soft as her whisper. “I love you, John. Whether or not you believe that, it’s true. I love you.”

She could _feel_ him withdraw from her, his gaze shuttering, the muscles in his face growing taught. When he tried to turn his head, to look away, she placed her palm against his cheek and gently guided him gaze back to hers. “No, don’t turn away. I love you.”

“Margaret.” Her name was a soft protest upon his lips, but he didn’t push her away as she tightened her grip around his thighs. Sitting up, she grabbed the bottom hem of her nightdress, yanking it over her head and tossing it aside.

She felt the weight of his palms and the strength of his grip when he clutched her thighs, sliding his hands along the curve of her hips to the soft swell of her belly and then to her breasts. She bit back a moan when his thumbs brushed against her nipples.

Her fingers digging into his shoulders, she pulled him forward until he sat up beneath her, his arms tightening around her waist. “What do you want, Margaret?” he growled as she sank onto him, letting out a soft gasp as she took his hard length inside her body.

“I want you,” she said on a sigh, but that wasn’t what he was really asking. He tilted his chin down, leaning her back to suck her nipple into his mouth, but she cupped his face in her palms and refused to allow him to look away. When his eyes widened slightly in surprise, she bucked against him, smiling when she heard his breath hiss between his teeth. “Tell me you love me.”

His arms spasmed, tightening around her waist. “I love you,” he growled, thrusting his hips into hers.

Margaret reveled in the warmth of his words and the way they washed over her. With an exultant cry, she increased her pace, rocking against him, resisting the urge to let her head fall back with pleasure at the feel of him moving inside her. When their bodies were slick with sweat and the muscles in his shoulders started to tighten, she slowed her pace, brushing her lips across his once more. “Again,” she demanded. “Tell me again.”

John’s voice was a harsh rumble in his chest. “I love you.”

Her body growing still above his, she breathed, “Again.”

Wrapping one hand behind her neck, his focus fell to her lips. When his gaze met hers once more, she could see the storm in his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost pleading. “I love you, Margaret. I always will.”

_Yes._

Placing one hand upon his chest, she exerted gentle pressure until he laid back upon the pillows beneath her. Sliding one hand down his arm, she linked her fingers in his, bringing his hand to her lips. It was her turn. “What do you want, John?” she demanded, her voice soft and urgent, as she brushed her lips across his fingers. His eyes widened in surprise, and he didn’t respond immediately, but she wouldn’t didn’t accept the safety of his silence. “What do you want of me?”

“Tell me you love me,” he pleaded, as he had the night before, moving inside of her once more.

She met his thrust with a roll of her hips as she gasped, “I love you.”

Her heart soared when he thrust harder inside her, increasing the pace of his hips. “Again,” he growled.

“I love you,” she moaned, having to clench her teeth to focus past the waves of pleasure coursing through her body. Then, increasing the grip of her legs around his hips, she held him tightly inside her and sucked in a deep breath. “Ask me again.”

His hand tightened around hers, and she saw the muscles in his jaw rise and fall as he swallowed. “Tell me you love me.”

She didn’t reply immediately, mirroring his own actions as she cupped her palm behind his neck and held him in place. Staring deeply into his eyes, she vowed, “You must believe me, John. I didn’t marry you because I had no choice; I married you because I love you. I only wish I could have admitted it sooner. I love you. And I always will.”

Her words seemed to break something inside John, because a guttural growl erupted from his chest as he wrapped his arm around her waist, rolling her over to lie beneath him. Sweat glistened upon his brow as he thrust deeply into he, causing her to cry out in pleasure, arcing her body against his. Her nails dug into his upper arms as she crested and rode the wave of pleasure that washed over her. When she felt his body start to tremble, she dragged him down to her, sucking his lower lip between her teeth.

She clutched him to her breast as his body tightened and then grew slack, collapsing atop her. Then, pressing her cheek against his, she murmured one more time into his ear, “I love you, John.”


End file.
